


Everybody Knows

by rayemars



Series: Close to Home [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Chirping as Flirting, Curses, Fantasizing, Getting Together, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:27:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 76,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23033191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayemars/pseuds/rayemars
Summary: When the Aces' GM acquired Jeff Troy from the Oilers, he described Jeff as "responsible" a couple times in the press release. It took Jeff a while to realize the GM was already planning to draft Parse back then, and he'd wanted to stack the Aces' roster with good role models to make sure his valuable first round pick didn't implode in Vegas before Parse'd matured enough to be trusted.But Parse was sharp, and he knew what people had been saying about him since Juniors. Jeff was pretty sure Parse pegged the GM's intent in signing Jeff within ten minutes of showing up for camp.The one where Jeff Troy first meets Kent Parson and Scraps, where Parse both is a literal charmer and Has A Type, and Swoops begins the first of so, so many regrets about his life and his choices re: one Kent Parson only obviously not enough to actually like, change them.Less regrets about Scraps though, so at least there's that?
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson & Jeff "Swoops" Troy, Kent "Parse" Parson/Jeff "Swoops" Troy/Scraps (Check Please!), Kent "Parse" Parson/Scraps (Check Please!)
Series: Close to Home [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1655362
Comments: 76
Kudos: 126





	1. ...the deal is rotten

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the same universe as [Letting The Right One In](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20912684/chapters/50601485), so Parse is a _literal_ charmer, though the significance of that doesn’t come up in this fic.
> 
> Note that the fantasizing is that of an inexperienced, predatory soft dom who currently has a lot of conflicts about the things he likes.  
> ~

In 2008, Jeff Troy was selected midway into the second round of the NHL draft by Edmonton, thanks in part to a last minute series of trades between a few clubs that'd included Anaheim sending one of the Oilers' second round draft picks back to them.

Jeff and his family were in attendance at the draft, on privately-bought tickets since Jeff's mites and Junior history mostly labeled him as a bubble player and no club had expressed trustworthy interest in drafting him. His parents had gotten that Friday off and they'd driven up from Toronto to Ottawa Thursday night, making a family weekend of it. Both Jeff and his parents had expected him to be drafted on Saturday, in the last few rounds. Jeff knew full well he was good, but his history wasn't.

There was an old video clip of Jeff hugging his little brother after his name was called while Sean was bouncing with delight. Jeff's face was hidden by Sean's head and shoulder, which was probably how nobody ever noticed that Jeff was visibly thinking _Goddammit, not them_.  
  
  
Jeff did well in the prospects' camp that summer, making a good name for himself.

He'd already committed to a five-year degree at the University of Alberta in Edmonton, so he was able to attend the Oilers' training camp without putting too much chaos on the start of his fall semester.

By the the time preseason started in September, after four tense and undocumented conversations with the Oilers' GM, Jeff Troy had not signed a starting contract with the Edmonton Hockey Club. He instead returned full-time to university, and played zero games with the Oilers for the duration of time that he was owned by the club.

It was, shall we say, not a good look.  
  
  
Jeff's college coaches for pretty legitimate reasons didn't trust him as a serious player after all that. But the tape he'd turned in when applying, combined with his level of play during tryouts and the impression he'd made on his future teammates during that time, meant that Jeff started his first fall semester as a member of the UA Golden Bears' men's hockey team.

It still took him several weeks into the season to shake off his coaches' concerns about him, but he got there eventually. So when the head coach called him during class in March 2009, Jeff excused himself from his lab partner and hid in the back corner to take the call, assuming it had to be important.

"Troy?" Coach McKenzie said. "I have Greg Impey here in the office. The Aces' GM? He's trying to get a hold of you."

"What," Jeff said, intelligently and too loud.

"Hello, Mr. Troy," an unfamiliar American man said, and holy hell Jeff was on speaker?? "I know you probably have classes--when are you free today?"

"Uh," Jeff said, continuing to show off how intelligent he was. "I'm--free in twenty minutes. Is that good?"

"Sure," said the _GM of the Las Vegas Aces_ who was apparently just _sitting in Coach McKenzie's office_. "You're in the Newton apartments, correct? How about we meet at the Tim Hortons by there in forty minutes. Will that work?"

It would probably be weirder that the man knew where he lived if Jeff hadn't gotten inured to the majority of his life being public information during Juniors and the draft. "Yeah. Yeah, that's good."

"Great," the man said. "I won't keep you longer. See you then."

"Sure," Jeff said brilliantly. The man hung up; Jeff stared at his phone for several more moments.

And then he went back to his lab station, apologized profusely and semi-incoherently to his partner and the professor, and fled class.

Jeff booked it back to his apartment, jogging across campus fast enough that he really should've broken an ankle on the remaining ice, and called his agent as he did.

"He didn't contact me," Lucas said, when Jeff demanded why the man hadn't given him any prior warning about this. "You said this was Vegas?"

"Yeah," Jeff panted, bouncing agitatedly as he waited at a corner for the walk sign.

"Mmn," Lucas said, which would--in future years--become a pretty fitting summary of how Vegas tended to bend rules. "You said you're meeting him now?"

"Yeah, in like thirty."

"Tell me everything afterward," Lucas said. "Don't agree to anything. Not even informally."

"Gotcha," Jeff agreed.

"...This is probably a good thing," Lucas added, because he and Jeff were both aware that it'd been pretty much radio silence from the NHL ever since Jeff poisoned the GMs' network to him after rejecting the Oilers' contract. "This is a pretty significant sign of interest. But. Don't make any definite agreements to anything."

"Yeah," Jeff agreed, taking off across the street. "I won't."

"All right. I'll talk to you soon."

Once he got home, Jeff changed into a button-down shirt and fresh jeans, and took a stab at brushing his hair before realizing there really was no hiding the fact that he'd rolled out of bed and gone straight to practice and then breakfast and class after staying up past midnight yesterday finishing a paper and studying for a quiz. He shoved his hat back on instead and headed down the street to the coffee shop.

The GM was already in there when he arrived, having somehow snagged an empty table at a Hortons right smack by a major uni campus, so at least Jeff wasn't being paranoid about trying to get there early. He spent a second trying to figure out if he should get a coffee or just head to the table; and then Impey waved him over.

Two coffees were already on the table. Impey pushed one slightly closer to him as Jeff pulled out his chair and sat down. "There's cream and sugar, too," Impey said, nodding at a small pile on the side of the table.

"I'm good, thank you," Jeff answered, because he was currently pretending to himself that he wasn't ingesting an unhealthy amount of caffeine in the lead-up to midterms so long as he kept drinking it black. "Thanks for meeting me."

Impey gave him a professional half-smile. "That should be my line."

Jeff chuckled awkwardly, told himself to be more chill, and nodded, before taking a drink of coffee in hopes of buying himself enough time to actually become chill. Just chatting with the GM of a major league hockey club in a Timmy Hortons after tearing across campus and trying to look presentable, no big deal. Chill times.

On the other side of the table, Impey took a sip of coffee as well, before setting his cup back down on the table, expression serious. Jeff repeated his new mantra of telling himself to keep his freaking cool.

"I'm sure you had a lot planned for today," Impey said, "so I'll be blunt."

Always a great start. Jeff nodded. "Okay."

"You're a very good player," Impey said. "Leading scorer on your team, liked by teammates, your coaches testify to your work ethic since day one."

"Thank you?" Jeff hazarded.

"Why did you refuse to sign with the Oilers?" Impey asked, and okay, yeah, Jeff'd been expecting that one since before he'd sat down.

He exhaled and fidgeted with the coffee cup. "Mr. Tambellini and I, uh. Didn't agree about how to prioritize uni and playing professionally."

The corner of Impey's mouth twitched briefly before he nodded. "Steve told me something to that effect. You seriously want to commit to a five-year degree, before considering playing professionally?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why?" Impey replied. "I don't want to be rude, but hockey is a young man's game. To commit five of your prime years to a university when you have the opportunity to play professionally is a significant choice."

That was sure one way of putting it. Jeff nodded.

"I know," he answered. "I talked about it with my parents, when Mr. Tambellini and I first started--disagreeing. But I mean, what you said, it's a young man's game, that's the reason." Jeff twisted his cup more, and watched the other man's face. He'd have basically cut class for no reason if Impey dismissed this like the Oilers' GM had; Jeff had made up his mind. But there was no reason not to try. "If I go pro, I'm only going to be playing until my mid-thirties or so, eh? And then, afterward, there's the rest of my life to consider."

Jeff shrugged. "I grew up knowing I was gonna take over managing our family's assets, you know? We didn't really expect Sean, coming so late. I always figured it was going to end up on me, to carry on."

He rubbed the back of his neck, accidentally pushing his hat up. Jeff straightened it and told Impey, "Even when I stop being a hockey player, I'm always gonna be a Troy. I can't ignore what I owe my family for a career that's gonna last maybe twenty years max. You know? That's not right to my parents."

Impey had folded his hands on the table, and was watching him intently. Jeff abruptly got the feeling that he was being read.

He shrugged again. "I know I could just get the degree afterward," he admitted, because that'd been what Edmonton's GM kept telling him he should do. "But...my little brother's only five. I don't want him to grow up thinking managing everything's his only future, because I went and shrugged off the responsibility to be a professional athlete. That's not bein' a good brother."

Jeff popped off the lid of his coffee cup and shrugged a shoulder again before mentally telling himself to knock it off, he was probably starting to look like he had a nervous twitch. "I mean, maybe he'll grow up and land management'll totally be his favorite thing, and he wants to do all this. Awesome. But I don't want him to feel like he _has_ to, you know?"

Jeff rubbed the back of his neck again, more carefully this time. "I don't know him great, since I've pretty much been gone his whole life. But I want him to grow up thinking he can go for whatever career he wants. Whatever he's good at."

". . . Hm," Impey said at last, still watching him.

Jeff exhaled silently and slumped back in his chair.

It always felt like he was throwing his family's business out on the street, saying all this; but that was the reason he'd made the choices he had, and consequently wrecked things with the Edmonton Hockey Club.

If Las Vegas's GM also disagreed with his decision, then at least Jeff would be able to walk away from this conversation knowing that he'd been honest and up-front about his convictions, and that they were incompatible with Vegas's goals.

\--Okay, the other main reason he'd rejected the contract had been because of how much it'd pissed him off that the Oilers' GM had acted like he owned him and his future just because he'd selected Jeff in the draft. That, combined with Edmonton's reputation as being the club where young talent went to die, had ultimately made it possible to refuse to sign.

Jeff didn't really have regrets about his choice, other than the probably permanent low-grade regret that now he'd likely never find out if he might've been able to play in the NHL. But he'd decided he could live with that.

Jeff drank his coffee, and waited.

"I'll be honest," Impey said, after several more silent moments. "That's a very responsible view of the future."

That was the literal opposite of what the Oilers' GM had said, when he'd been angrily telling Jeff that he was irresponsibly throwing away his future, so it took Jeff a second to process. "--Uh. Thank you."

Impey nodded once.

"The problem is, your status is currently in limbo in the NHL," the man continued. "Steve could be willing to trade you to another club that's interested in signing you and willing to wait a few years as you develop at college; but without a contract, that's not possible."

...Jeff was pretty damn sure what was being said here.

But since it was always better to get things in plain language, he asked, "You mean, like trading me to Las Vegas?"

Impey nodded again.

"Vegas is a unique city," the man told him. "But I think you'd be a good fit for our club, both in terms of your play and your personality."

"Uh," Jeff replied, continuing his scintillating conversation. "Thank you."

"It's true," Impey said casually, with a brief tilt of his head. "I've been talking with Steve about acquiring you, but as I said, we need a contract first."

. . . Huh.

"Uh," Jeff said, popping his coffee cup lid back on. "I'd have to talk to my agent before verbally agreeing to anything, but. That sounds--thank you for the consideration."

"Of course," Impey agreed. "What's your evening look like? The Aces are playing tonight at Rexall Place; if you're free, I'll get you a pass for my box, so you can get an idea of our team's style. If you're interested afterward, and you've talked to your agent, then you and I and Steve can have a conversation after the game."

 _What in the flying fuck_ , Jeff thought.

Was this just--was this just what people **did** at the major league level? Was this normal for the NHL? It couldn't be. Right?

Jeff had the distinct impression that the GM of the Las Vegas Aces was pulling a power move on him: casually handing out a ticket to a game, apparently in box seats, apparently with high-level members of the Aces' front staff(!!!), on extremely short notice to limit Jeff's ability to really think about it.

Jeff had enough casual experience with management tactics just from growing up in the family he had, and traveling in the social/business circles that he did, that he was confident he was reading the move right.

He'd be lying if he pretended it didn't slightly irritate him. He wasn't some farm boy from the prairies who'd be blinded to the ploy by a little flashed money.

But on the other hand, this was an actual NHL GM sitting across from him, telling Jeff that his decision to put family first was a potentially valuable aspect of his personality, and expressing some serious interest in signing him to his team.

This was not the way Jeff had expected his day to go when he woke up this morning. This was not a way he would've ever expected his day to go, even if he'd been wildly tossing out wishes.

If opportunity'd decided to actually knock twice for him, then hell, Jeff wasn't going to burn another chance to try and get into the NHL.

"Okay," he agreed. "Yeah. Definitely--thank you. Absolutely, I can do that."

"Great," Impey smiled, holding out a hand.

Jeff took a brief second to wonder if this counted as informally agreeing, and then he decided his agent could just sort that out later and shook the man's hand. "Thanks."

"Of course," Impey replied. "I think you'd be a good fit for us, but it's in everyone's best interests for you to get a look at the team and decide if you feel the same."

Jeff was starting to develop a real headache from simultaneously registering that he was being played and also recognizing that everything Impey was saying made sense.

Maybe you made it all the way up to general manager by genuinely buying into the lines you had to sell to others. "Okay," he agreed.  
  
  
Jeff spent nearly an hour on the phone with his agent once he got home, going over potential risks versus rewards versus Jeff's long-term plans. After that, he spent half an hour writing a completely rubbish English paper because all he had to do was pass the class to get the requirement out of the way and whatever, one bad one wouldn't kill him. He got out the most conservative suit of the three he'd brought just in case, and then wasted almost ten more minutes tearing up his apartment trying to figure out where he'd put his collar stays and cuff links.

The GM's box also had the Aces' president, Martin Dry, and one of its scouts, Serhiy Prilepin, in it, along with a third guy that Jeff never got a formal introduction to and who didn't really seem interested in talking.

Jeff went through the usual handshakes and biographical chitchat and wondered in the back of his mind if hyperventilating was too dramatic a response to the abrupt left turn his life had taken since this afternoon.

Probably was. It sure _felt_ like the right response, though.

The Aces lost the game, which wasn't surprising. They had some good defensemen out there, but the core of the team was older, heavy-style players. The Aces' goalie made himself pretty big, holding the Oilers to two goals; but the Aces never managed to score more than one, or to even create many chances for their forwards to get shots on the goal, or to even skate the puck into the other zone fast enough that they could beat the Oilers' d-men to the net. The Aces' offense was visibly weak--and yeah, sure, defense won games, but somebody still had to put a puck in the back of the other team's net a few times to actually win.

Jeff didn't want to seem like he had a fat head or like he thought it'd be easy to go down and actually play in an NHL-level game, but he was getting a better idea of why the Aces' GM was willing to take a risk picking up his contract.

Jeff hoped he'd be a low-risk gamble, given the circumstances. He wanted to find out, at least.

After the game, Jeff had a relatively brief conversation with both the Oilers' and Aces' GMs. The next morning, he signed the contract that his agent had faxed him and then faxed it back, racking up a lot of fees at the library to do so because that thing was not short and why hadn't the NHL moved to email by now? They were almost a decade into the 21st century, this was ridiculous.

By lunch, the news was out that he was officially signed with and property of the Edmonton Oilers. And then there was a long stretch of several newsless hours where Jeff bombed a quiz and ignored a mass of enthusiastic and/or confused texts and emails from friends and family as he slowly devolved into a paranoid panic that he'd been suckered hard and now he was trapped in this organization for the next three years, until the contract finally ran out and he could refuse to sign a new one.

He didn't allow himself to talk about it until he was working in the weight room with a couple teammates, because Mitch and Tagger were the only guys who could manage to pretend some sympathy for Jeff's freaking out about having _a goddamn NHL contract, you absolute ass_ as Mitch kept reminding him. In the middle of that, right near the end of the business day, came the news that the Oilers had traded Jeff to Las Vegas.

"You petty motherfucker," Jeff growled at his phone as he read the blurb, like somehow Tambellini was going to hear it or give a damn.

And okay, Jeff didn't know whether this'd been some actual petty bullshit meant to make him sweat, or if it was just the normal amount of delay that trade paperwork involved. But he was currently aggravated enough that he wasn't going to give the man the benefit of the doubt.

Fuck it, whatever. That organization wasn't his problem anymore.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Tagger said, from where he was spotting Mitch. "You're so damn lucky we like you, you Tory posh fuckface. You know the other guys would've shredded you by now, right?"

"Two of those things are slander and you fuckin' know it," Jeff replied without looking up from where he was making a strangling motion at his phone, like somehow that was going to do anything to the Oilers' GM, either. "Fuck me _running_ , I thought I was gonna die."

Tagger just rolled his eyes. Jeff didn't see him doing it, but he knew he was.

Jeff exhaled heavily, slumping over the bike as he tried to deal with the exhausting mix of aggravation and relief that was washing through him. "Fuuuuuck."

"Thirty extra minutes, core work," Mitch panted.

"You can't just fuckin' throw out fines, Rowell, you have to make a little creativity comin' up with why," Jeff replied. "Fake. Not make. Fuck."

"Thirty minutes extra core work 'cause you're a Tory posh pigeon," Mitch replied, audibly smirking.

"Put that barbell down, we're fightin'!" Jeff yelled back without lifting his head. Tagger cackled.

*

The day Jeff finished his last final of the semester, he packed a bag and got on an international flight to Kansas, to go join the Aces' AHL team the Wichita Sovereigns in their playoff run. It was a learning experience.

The Sovereigns made it two rounds before getting swept. Jeff missed the last three games with a broken arm after throwing himself on the ice to block a shot from a guy who if he hadn't won the Hardest Shot contest during the AHL All Stars' competition Jeff was going to lie that he had, because _fuck_. If that puck hadn't been going 200 mph Jeff would eat a hat.

He spent his summer healing, doing physical therapy, and finding a new conditioning camp.

Entering the AHL during a playoff run had been a trial by fire that just about killed him, but Jeff wouldn't trade it for anything. The guys on the team had been good to him, giving him a lot of advice on how to make it as a pro not just on the ice but also in his overall life and habits. One of his linemates had bluntly told him that Jeff's current conditioning camp and eating habits weren't going to cut it, and then gave him the recommendation for his new camp and shoved him over to the team trainer for new on- and off-season diet plans. Jeff had played like he was possessed those eight games, not just because he wanted to prove that he was serious and the Aces had made a good gamble, but also because he'd really wanted to win it for those guys.

By July, he was in good enough condition to attend the Aces' development camp.

Which was where he met the Aces' brand new first-draft-pick prospect, one Kent Parson.

*

Parse had done really well in the prospects' camp earlier, and he came into the Aces' development camp just as strong. That _speed_.

The thing that really threw Jeff though was how level-headed the guy seemed. He always sounded calm, despite the fact that pretty much all of Las Vegas's sports media outlets were blowing up about the Aces' new rookie and talking about him like he was going to be some kind of miracle cure for the city's struggling hockey club. Jeff knew media training and handlers and hockey's general more-team-focused-than-the-other-Big-Four-sports culture probably accounted for a lot of that, but still.

Jeff had been expecting the upstart American who'd given Jack Zimmermann a run for his money as potential first draft pick, not this laid-back, quietly confidant, surprisingly mature teenager who seemed dead serious only about earning a place on the opening night roster.

He supposed it'd served him right for listening to rumors. Jeff knew a good 83% of all the ones about him were wrong, so yeah, all right, it made sense that pretty much anything about Parse that didn't have photo evidence probably was too.

*

That was day one of camp. By day two, he was starting to have a better read on Parse.

*

The thing about maturity was that it was really easy to give the appearance of it: you just kept your mouth shut and didn't argue with people older than you. Maturity was ultimately just the opposite of letting yourself be manipulated into giving away something about you that could be twisted into an attack.

And the thing about being laid-back was that it was really easy to give the appearance of it, too. You just kept yourself extremely guarded, and didn't let yourself show a sincere reaction to any chirping or interview questions or a fourth hour of fan work.

All you had to do to come off as laid-back and mature was to be extremely closed off and distrustful of other people's motivations, while still being willing and charming enough to put up a personable front. And the potential chance of achieving the good life of an elite-level pro athlete was more than enough motivation for **that**. Media training could take care of the rest.

(Jeff assumed the quiet confidence was legit. Parse was damn skilled.)

And the thing about being extremely guarded and distrustful of other people's motivations was those were the kind of traits that could be natural--or that could be indicators of emotional scars. Like, say, from a draft day that went absolutely all to hell in a way that could make a teenager feel like he had to pretend none of it had had an impact on him in order to protect the perceived fragile start of his career that would finally take him to the good life of being an elite-level pro athlete and not a lower-middle-class kid from the backwaters of upstate New York.

It took Jeff several years to figure all that out, obviously. But he still pinged that something was off about Parse pretty fast.

*

Granted, it helped that on day two Jeff actually had a conversation with Parse that lasted longer than two minutes and wasn't about hockey or one of the icebreaker games they had to play during meals that Jeff half-suspected were just older players hazing the new guys.

Jeff showed up at the practice rink early on day two, because he hated how poorly he'd played yesterday and he was hoping some extra time on the slushy soup Vegas called ice would help him adjust faster.

He wore a tracksuit to the rink despite the heat so he could just put on his skates and go straight out on the ice; but once he was actually there, Jeff swung into the dressing room to grab his arm guards as well, since breaking his arm back in April had made him paranoid. And once he was in there, he decided he might was well get his gloves and a stick and hunt down a bucket worth of pucks as well. Why just get in skating practice when he could add shooting as well?

He ran into Parse in the hallway, coming out of the exercise room and looking like he'd been doing a hard warmup, which automatically raised several questions about just how long Parse had already been here, because Jeff'd definitely gotten up at the crack of Christ to make sure he got to the rink early enough that if he fell on the 'ice' a third time there hopefully wouldn't be anyone around to see it.

"Hey, man," Parse said, like this was a perfectly natural time to be at the rink.

Okay, two could play that game. "Hey," Jeff replied, shuffling the bucket and his stick and gloves so he could lift a hand in greeting.

"Shooting practice?" Parse asked muffledly, drying off his face with a towel. He nodded at the bucket.

"Yeah," Jeff agreed. "This friggin' ice. I want more practice."

"Cool," Parse said. "I'll join ya in a few."

"Sure thing," Jeff answered, because he was rapidly running out of casually innocuous phrases.

"Jeff Troy, right? University of Alberta?" Parse added, slinging the towel over his shoulder.

"Yeah," Jeff replied, slightly surprised that Parse remembered that much. The development camp was packed, like usual; Jeff was pretty sure he could remember all the guys' last names, except for maybe a couple invited tryouts, and he had about two-thirds of the nicknames down, but he'd also actively gone through the initial roster during his flight down to Vegas and tried to memorize all the names to their faces, to give himself an edge.

...Maybe Parse remembered him because of the bad PR before the trade. That seemed unfortunately likely. Damn.

Oh well. Jeff gave him a half smile. "I'd go 'Parson, yeah?' but I think everybody in the state knows you by now."

Parse chuckled and shrugged that off. "Eh, the hype'll die down eventually," he replied, which the years would go on to prove was the first lie Parse ever told Jeff, because he was _Kent bloody Parson_ and no it wouldn't.

Jeff just raised an eyebrow. Parse shrugged a shoulder again.

"See ya on the ice," he said, giving him a friendly smile that didn't reach his eyes.

 _\--Ah_ , Jeff thought reflexively. _One of those._

"Yep," he answered, shifting his grip on the bucket and starting for the rink. Parse slid his hands in his pockets and went past him, heading for the change room.

*

Jeff figured he had a pretty decent emotional IQ, but it'd still taken him a while to realize that the reason the Aces' GM had repeatedly mentioned how responsible he was had likely been because Impey had already been planning to draft Parse, and he wanted to stack his roster with good role models to make sure his first round pick didn't implode in Vegas before Parse could mature enough to be trusted.

It'd taken Jeff a while to figure out why the Aces had actively courted him despite his problematic status; but Parse knew what people were saying about him since Juniors. There was a leaked Montreal scouting report about Parse that translated to a terse "Exceptional potential, finesse player and playmaker, personality and off-ice behavior is incompatible with the Canadiens' values." The original French was colder.

And Parse had a whip-sharp ability to read people. Jeff was pretty sure Parse had pegged the GM's purpose behind signing Jeff within ten minutes of showing up for camp.

Parse never did anything to overtly indicate it, of course. Even back then, Parse was looking at the Aces as a fresh start, and he didn't want to do anything to screw it up.

But Jeff had spent years being gay in hockey dressing rooms, and he knew how to read people. When Parse shook his hand with a smile that would've been believable if only Parse could have just faked it a little more to get it up to his eyes, Jeff immediately recognized a person who was low-grade antagonistic to him and therefore a potential threat if Jeff couldn't figure out what the cause was. Because there was always a chance the cause was that person had made him out as gay.

Luckily, everybody knew Parse's backstory as a rural America kid who'd made good and become one of the most sought-after players of his draft year--although whether he was behind, before, or equal to Canada's hockey royalty son Zimmermann was up for a debate that usually depended on what side of the border you were on.

That story was the cornerstone of Parse's brand, as well as a big part of his real, actual personality. So Jeff already had a key piece of information to help him figure out what about him had riled Parse before Parse even really knew anything about Jeff personally.

And that info was really all he needed.

Kent Parson was a teenager from upstate New York who'd grown up playing mites in second-hand equipment, who'd forced his way into Canada's Juniors program through raw talent and had excelled there in the company of players who'd grown up with infinitely more advantages. One of the early Vegas newspaper articles on him had mentioned that a secret to Parse's speed was the fact that he played on dull blades that didn't sink into the ice as much as sharp ones, since Parse had never gotten into a habit of constantly sharpening his skates like most other players, because that cost money.

Meanwhile, Jeff Troy was a twenty-year-old from Toronto whose old money family owned oil land in Alberta, who'd learned to skate in his neighborhood's members' only social club, who was chosen by Edmonton in the second round of the draft and then refused to sign with the club and pissed off to uni instead. On paper, everything about him screamed "rich kid wasting his talent."

Of course Parse didn't respect him when they first met. Jeff watched romantic comedies. You could see that shit coming a mile away.  
  
  
It helped that he'd already gone through a similar situation.

In elementary, Jeff had played hockey non-competitively, because his parents believed that team sports were an important part of raising a healthy and well-adjusted child and they'd said he had to join one. He'd picked hockey because he already owned ice skates, and it would let him keep his summers free: all the other options they gave him either sounded boring, or their seasons meant he'd still have to go do sports stuff even when he was free from school.

(Jeff left that part out of his brand's story; but his little brother always loudly mentioned it to all his teammates every year when he and Jeff's parents visited for family skate no matter what Jeff bribed him with, because Sean was a blackmailing little shit. Jeff would be proud if only his brother would quit turning the knife on _his own damn family_.

Parse just about murdered Jeff via chirps when he learned about it. It went on for two weeks straight, until Jeff finally got exasperated and wheedled the ice rink manager into looking the other way while Jeff stole Parse's clothes while he was working out and hung them from a rope from the rafters. Parse doubled-down on the chirps for a month after that, which, in hindsight, Jeff should've seen coming.)

Jeff was gifted enough that he made it into the top-level league without having to do too much individual practice, so he never bothered to do more. There were probably parallel universes out there where he kept playing hockey non-competitively through secondary and maybe into college, before dropping it in favor of starting a career or at least never playing in anything more intense than a rec league.

But in this universe, his coach was pissed off enough about Jeff's laziness in contrast to his talent that, after repeatedly lecturing Jeff about it never really took, Coach Doyle talked to a friend who was neighbors with a scout.

The guy took the time to come by one of their games, and then gave his coach the most damning and accurate report Jeff'd ever gotten in his life: _High potential, great hockey sense at a young age, minimal drive, treats the sport as a hobby. Could still play competitively at a high level despite a late start compared with his potential peers, but based on your description it'd require more hard work than he wants to put in._

His coach gave the report to his parents. They sat Jeff down the next day and asked him seriously if he had any interest in playing hockey competitively.

Jeff had actually just helped one of his friends steal Ben's older brother's cache of nudie magazines and hide it in one of the neighborhood parks that previous afternoon, so when his parents sat him down to have what was obviously A Serious Conversation, he'd been terrified that they'd already been caught. When it turned out that all his parents really wanted to know was if Jeff was willing to start amplifying his talent with an actual work ethic, he'd been so relieved that he'd immediately agreed.

(Jeff **did** tell that part of the story, but only to teammates and only if somebody bought him a good beer first. "I started playing competitive atom hockey because I was so glad I wasn't caught stealing tit mags" was just too stupid and good a story to keep to himself.

Plus, it was a story that helped code him as straight.

Jeff cared less about that these days now that he was a successful professional player, and Jack Zimmermann had set a precedent, and the Aces' front office had spent so many years all but tacitly acknowledging that they'd figured out that Jeff and Parse (and maybe Scrappy? but Scraps was definitely bi, so maybe he'd flown under their radar) weren't straight but that the club wasn't inclined to make any comments about it if Jeff and Parse weren't saying anything. A lot of things had changed in the decade they'd been playing in the NHL, but there was still a pretty big chasm between letting stuff be known, and actively talking about it.

Especially since his situation wasn't really anything like Zimmermann's. Zimmermann's was "I have a boyfriend;" Jeff's was "I have two boyfriends, we've been in a long-term stable triad for years now although I guess technically we could call it a ménage à trois since I literally built my house to accommodate them, also they're both my coworkers."

Some statements would probably get you fired by even the most inclusive agent. Jeff was okay with waiting until he'd retired to test that theory out.)

So in the middle of the season, Jeff started busting his ass with individual practice and workouts. He rapidly got more ice time as he started developing actual skills instead of just coasting on raw talent: within a month, Jeff was playing on the first line.

Which was when the problems started, because that meant Jeff had taken the place of the first line's previous center; and Andy was a kid who'd always worked his ass off to keep his place in their league.

Andy got incredibly pissed when Jeff started stealing all his important positions on the team. And since Jeff was ten and didn't have much empathy developed yet, he started reacting to Andy's attitude and being an asshole back to him.

By the end of the season, Coach Doyle had to break up a fistfight between them. Jeff and Andy were both scratched from their final game, and watched from the bench as their team lost.

By the next season, Jeff had tested into a mid-tier competitive team and left his old team and Andy behind. By the time he started junior high, he was playing in the top level of minor hockey; by the time he started high school, he'd been drafted to Dryden's Juniors team and had moved to sparsely-populated northwest Ontario.

He finished school out there. His little brother was born when Jeff was fourteen; he learned about it because his dad had called his billet family to tell them the news, and Jeff's billet mom actually went to his school and pulled him out of class briefly to let him know that everything had gone well and that both Mom and Sean were doing great.

Jeff had appreciated it. His mom'd been thirty-eight when she got pregnant with Sean; nobody had expected it, especially not her. Jeff had known that she was getting great care and that all the doctors had said things should be okay, but he'd overheard his parents having a conversation about how to manage potential complications and what choice to make if it came down to either the baby or her when they'd thought he was asleep instead of sneaking some roast out of the fridge for a midnight snack, and he'd been paranoid about both Mom and Sean since.

He'd wound up confessing it to his billet mom, mostly because he eventually had to explain why he kept asking Susan a in hindsight probably inappropriate amount of questions about what her pregnancies had been like. She'd been kind enough to walk him through the whole process and to keep reassuring him that things were going to be fine, as Mom's due date got closer and Jeff got more twitchy.

Jeff fell out of touch with his billet family over politics eventually, but he still sent Coach Doyle playoff tickets for all of Vegas's games every year that they made it in, even though the man usually ended up apologizing that he couldn't make it and reselling them--although he and his family flew to Vegas for a couple of their Cup games.

Jeff kept on buying and sending the tickets every year he could anyway, to repay him.

Once he'd started playing against serious talent, hockey got fun, because it got hard. And the more fun he'd had, the harder Jeff'd worked to keep rising up the ranks, so he could play against even more talented people.

If Coach Doyle hadn't gone out of his way to give Jeff enough of a kick in the ass that he started actually committing himself, he wouldn't have eventually made his way to Vegas and met Parse and Scrappy. Jeff owed a sizable amount of his happiness to a coach he'd absolutely hated as a kid because the man was so demanding and never satisfied.

It was a funny world sometimes.  
  
  
So Jeff had prior experience in being looked down on for being lazy, and he'd matured enough to understand that fistfights were not a professional way to handle your problems. He knew how to overcome that; his first year at university had given him a lot of practice.

And once he'd determined that Parse was definitely using his laid-back attitude as a cover to keep himself reserved from the rest of the guys, it made Jeff want to find out what was underneath Parse's surface.

(It hadn't hurt that Parse was pretty hot. Jeff was shallow sometimes; he'd made his peace with that.)

So he did what any intelligent person would do and executed a strategic series of pranks and chirps meant to force Parse to start interacting with him so he would get to know Jeff better, a.k.a. "Operation: This Dude Could Be Interesting, What Can Possibly Go Wrong?"

In hindsight, Jeff basically signed his own death warrant that day. Parse didn't usually go to the effort of pulling pranks; but when he really committed to chirping, Jeff got his ass absolutely roasted. There was no keeping up with Parse's mouth when he was on a tear. Jeff'd tried. For years. Parse had absolutely destroyed him once at a bar in Toronto when they were _at the same booth as a couple guys on the Leafs_ , and the bartender eventually gave Jeff a fistful of napkins and a sympathy beer after Jeff spent five minutes laughing so hard he was crying.

One of the Leafs bought another drink for Parse that night, and then the next evening tried to elbow him in the head during their game after Parse'd been aggressively chirping him all night, triggering a fight between the guy and Scrappy, which honestly was a really good microcosm of what life with Parse was like.

What could he say? Jeff had literally done it to himself.

*

After the Aces' development camp wrapped up, Jeff was upfront with the Aces' GM that he intended to return to college for the year. Impey told him to come to the training camp in mid-September anyway. And to prepare to potentially stay into the preseason; but he guaranteed Jeff would be cut from the roster before the season started, which had to be the first time a GM ever had to promise a player that.

Jeff proceeded to contact his hockey coaches and fall professors and made two of the most important pitches he'd ever done in his life, basically buying himself leniency to miss two and a half weeks of classes right at the start of the semester.

His professors eventually came around to agreeing, although Jeff had to arrange to do some of the field coursework he'd be missing before classes started in August. And he had to get a couple professors from his first year to vouch for his sincere interest and dedication to the program.

His coaches really didn't like it; Jeff lost his alternate captaincy. But they kept him on the roster.

But what else was he going to do? The Aces were giving him a second chance after Jeff'd pretty much shot himself in the foot with the NHL after refusing to sign with Edmonton. He wasn't going to tell their GM no.

Impey kept him on the roster all the way through camp and into the preseason, so that Jeff could get some experience with team's travel and habits. Jeff learned to tune out chirps for doing homework on the flights.

By the final preseason game, Jeff, another forward named Dimitri Vovk, and a defenseman were the last guys competing for a spot on the official roster--although technically he wasn't in the competition since Jeff already had his ticket for a redeye back to Edmonton tomorrow morning. If he was lucky, he'd be able to finish his written report on wildlife legislation on the plane in time to turn it in at his afternoon class. If he was _really_ lucky, he'd be able to finish the literature search for Friday's class, so that once he got back to his dorm Thursday evening he could just pass the fuck out for ten hours. Jeff desperately wanted to be that lucky.

It wasn't until Jeff showed up for practice Friday morning and got tackled by a good half of the team and swarmed with demands to tell them **everything, _right now_** , about what it was like to play with an NHL team that the past weeks really hit him.

He'd done an entire training camp, and played five of six preseason games, with _the Las Vegas Aces_. He'd played almost fifteen minutes total together with Kent Parson, the U.S.'s current hockey savior since Kane was busy being tied up in legal problems over punching a cab driver. Holy shit.

Holy shit.

What a life.

Jeff's parents were mostly Christmas and Easter Christians, and Jeff himself had mentally checked out of church after he'd come to terms with the extremely uncomfortable fact that he kind of liked fantasizing about rough sex a lot and the almost equally uncomfortable fact that he really just wanted to do it with other guys, since both of those things meant he basically wasn't welcome there. Maybe God and Jesus and the Holy Ghost had different opinions, but the congregation's attitude was pretty clear.

Despite that, while he was getting dressed for Friday's game Jeff said a prayer to the general universe, half in thanks for the last three weeks and half to remind himself to appreciate stuff like that while it was happening from there on out.

*

A couple weeks later, Jeff was trying to read through Canadian legal codes during post-practice breakfast when he got a text from an unknown number: _Your team playing a home game tomorrow?_

That was kind of suspicious, but whatever. Jeff wrote back _Men's hockey? Yeah, 7:30_

 _Who's this?_ he added. _I think I accidentally deleted your contact info somehow, sorry_

Jeff was confident he'd done no such thing, but baits worked better with honey. As proved by the response he got soon after:

_Nah, I got your number from the GM. It's Parse. Some of the guys wanna try swinging by to see you play_

" **What the fuck** ," Jeff said out loud.

"What?" Tagger asked across the table.

"Nothing," Jeff answered, as he wrote a very coherent reply of _??_

 _Team building exercises on the long break_ Parse answered. _This'll be chirp practice_

Jeff was faced with the monumental and terrifying realization that he had no way to tell if Kent Parson was threatening to bring some Aces to tomorrow's game to chirp him for serious, or if he was just needling Jeff for fun, because Jeff was looking at the NHL schedule right now and yep, the Aces played Calgary tonight and Edmonton on Sunday, and regardless of which option it was Jeff had no idea how to respond.

He should've named his chirp offensive "Operation: This Dude Is Definitely Interesting And I've Made A Terrible Decision Firing The First Shot In This Chirp War, Because I Think This Text Means He's Taking It To 'Give No Quarter' Territory."

"Dude," Tagger said, raising an eyebrow. "Why're you staring at your phone like that?"

Fine, two could play this game. There was no way the GM would possibly release any of his players in the middle of team-building exercises to go start shit at a college hockey game.

"Nothing," Jeff repeated, before writing, _That'd be cool. See you guys if you can make it._ because come on Parse, who did you think you're kidding? He couldn't pull off the threat.

Tagger gave him a suspicious look. "Suuuuure."

"Yup," Jeff agreed, before cramming a way-too-large chunk of eggs into his mouth and resolutely focusing back on the legal codes.

*

Parse pulled off the threat.

He and several other guys from the Aces showed up at their game the next evening. They sat on the glass. Jeff quickly learned that if he tried to warm up on the opposite side of the ice, they'd just yell louder. Two different teammates collared Jeff to growl out " _Why the fuck didn't you tell us?!?_ " Coach McKenzie looked equal parts disbelieving and pissed.

Well played, Parson. Jeff mentally chalked up five in the win column for Parse and made a note to never underestimate this little shit again, and tried to stay focused.

The NHL HOCKEY PLAYERS crashing a college team's game were mostly well-behaved during the actual game, which was a small mercy. Jeff was now unexpectedly playing in front of **_professional major league hockey players_** who he really wanted to be coworkers with again next year, which was the thing of nightmares. He fumbled five passes and got a hat trick that night, because apparently Jeff'd subconsciously decided to apply the heaven-and-hell theme to his game, too. They won.

The Aces guys came to the Golden Bears' dressing room afterward--except for Cabo, who left to call home and read a bedtime story to his daughter but who told the other guys to say he said hi and good game--to chat for a little while and sign anything that Jeff's teammates handed them.

"Told ya we were comin'," Parse said, with that 'I know I'm a bastard, try and call me on it' half-grin he had--the one that went pretty fast from being a sign in July that Jeff had successfully gotten Parse's attention, to being something that by September Jeff actively tried not to think about too much because you couldn't think about teammates like that. That way lay wrecked careers.

" _ **Try**_ ," Jeff growled, pulling off his shoulder pads. "You said you'd _try to_ come. You're the fucking worst, all that shit at warmups. I about _died_."

"You said it'd be cool if we could make it," Parse replied; and then he shifted to that extremely bad American-accent-tinged imitation of Jeff and added, drawling, " _Literally_."

Jeff was not going to strangle one smart-assed Kent Parson in the Golden Bears' dressing room while riding high on adrenaline and a win. That was not professional hockey player behavior. Jeff intended to be a professional hockey player. Also strangling was bad. Thinking about his hands on Parse's neck was worse. _This line of thought was not helping, Troy._

"The **worst** ," Jeff repeated, because frankly his capacity for more clever retorts was kind of shot right now. _Professionalism_ , he reminded himself as he finished stripping down. He could do professionalism.

Parse just grinned a little wider.

"Ball's in your court," he told him. "Better have something good planned by next year."

Jeff pressed a hand over his face, because one, apparently yep, they had indeed hurtled straight into take-no-quarter territory, and two, _Kent "Already Playing Like a Calder Trophy Winner" Parson_ just basically said he expected Jeff to be playing on the Aces at some point next year.

"Fuck me," he muttered, because this was about all the emotional rollercoaster he could handle for tonight. "I'm showering."

"Want anything autographed?" Parse called cheerfully as Jeff headed for the showers.

" _Parse_ ," he replied brilliantly, before diving into the safety of the shower room.

He really should've named his chirp offensive "Operation: This Dude Is Super Interesting And Smart And Hella Funny And A Petty Bitch And Goddammit, Apparently I'm Into Getting My Ass Dragged By This Little Smart-Mouthed Motherfucker?? But I'm Still Not Going To Think About That BUT FUCK NOW IT'S IN THE TITLE (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻"

By the time he was out of the showers and had done his cool-down bike ride and then had to shower again because he did all that completely out of order because Jeff was very possibly losing his mind from sexual frustration, the Aces' guys had had to go back to their hotel.

Jeff went to get dressed and found that Parse had autographed his Golden Bears' ball cap obnoxiously large along the side. He spent several seconds staring at it and internally screaming, until Tagger inadvertently saved him by punching Jeff in the back and telling him he was a son of a bitch for not warning them.

Well, there was no going back now. Jeff'd never claimed to always make good choices.

He sure wouldn't be going to college in the same city as the team he refused to sign with if _that_ were true.

*

During the middle of spring semester, Jeff was working on a field results paper when he got a text from a number he hadn't heard from in months, as evidenced by the fact that it was still labelled "That Little Shit" because Jeff had never gotten around to changing Parse's name in his phone since last October: _You free this afternoon?_

No, he wasn't; this paper was due at the end of the week, and he had three more coming up, plus the usual amount of weekly reading to do, and another all-day field trip in two days, and then the next round of games on the road during the weekend.

On the other hand, when a professional hockey player who already had fifty-seven points this season and who almost everyone was predicting to win this year's rookie trophy texted, you answered him.

 _Yeah I got some time_ Jeff wrote.

He added _Did you wanna meet up?_ and then deleted the _meet up?_ and changed it to _hang out?_ and then he deleted that too and tried out both _meet?_ and _catch up?_ before finally deleting the whole sentence and just staring at the cursor in despair, because there was no good phrase that didn't sound either weird or too chill to the point of maybe being rude. Also the entire question was stupid because why would Parse be texting him at all if he didn't want to hang out? _Why couldn't he stop overthinking around this guy??_

Okay, that one was obvious.

Jeff dropped his head and exhaled heavily. His phone beeped again as Parse asked _You still on the sixth floor at Newton?_

. . . So many questions Jeff now had. Almost all of them included some variant of "what the fuck."

Texting had utterly failed him. Jeff called Parse's number and said, "Are you _in the building?_ "

"Yeah," Parse replied, like that was perfectly normal. He had to know full well it was not. Jeff was definitely being trolled again. "Some girls felt sorry for me and let me in."

"Uh-huh," Jeff said reflexively. "Sorry for your--wait, you still got the sprain?"

Wait, was that a creepy thing to say? No, it should be normal for Jeff to be keeping up with how things were going for guys on the Aces. The GM had already talked to Jeff about keeping his summer open in case the Aces secured their playoff berth. Seriously, Jeff had to stop overthinking every damn thing with this guy. It was exhausting.

"Yeah," Parse answered. "Meetings are over, can't do my whole workout yet. I'm bored."

"Bored," Jeff repeated dryly, as he started shoveling all the dirty laundry on the floor into his closet. "So you just, what? Decided to head over and break into campus buildings?"

"Just the one," Parse said casually, and some day Jeff was going to learn not to give this guy any openings but today was not that day.

"Jesus," Jeff mumbled, kicking a stray sweatshirt into the closet and shouldering the door shut. "You do this to all the prospects you know?"

"Just the ones that're easy to wind up," Parse said, audibly grinning, and okay, fine, Jeff straight-up handed him that one too, what with this entire conversation. "Sixth floor?"

"Yeah," Jeff answered. "6018, turn left at the elevator."

"Cool, see ya," Parse told him, before hanging up.

Jeff shook his head and tossed the phone onto his desk. "' **Bored**.'"

He went into the kitchen and stared defeatedly at the sinkful of dirty dishes, before telling himself whatever, Parse was like nineteen. No way he had better solo living skills. All teenagers were slobs. ...Hopefully.

Somebody knocked on the door. Jeff said out loud, "You were _already in the elevator_ , motherfucker, I know you couldn't get up here that fast."

And then he reminded himself that these walls were pretty thin and he probably should not call Kent Parson a 'motherfucker' and also he really needed to change Parse's name in his phone to something more innocuous asap, and went to answer it.

Parse's eyes were narrowed and his shoulders were tense when Jeff opened the door, which was not great for Jeff's blood pressure as his heart rate immediately spiked in terror at the possibility that Parse had definitely heard him and Jeff had presumed way too much familiarity and he'd now potentially impaired his future with the Aces by creating a negative impression with one of its obviously-going-to-be-a-long-term-member-of-the-new-core players. Good fuckin' job there Troy, just couldn't keep your mouth shut.

Then he noticed that Parse was glaring at the whiteboard hanging on Jeff's door, and rubbing his non-braced hand against his jeans. A split second later, Parse dropped his hand and shifted his body language and expression into a casual smile.

...Huh.

Jeff glanced at the whiteboard. The writing was mostly smeared away, but there were enough blurry pieces of letters left that Jeff could tell it'd said either "loser faggot" or some variant on that theme. The people who'd found out his address and were pissy about him not signing with Edmonton but too cowardly to tell it to his face weren't real creative with their insults.

The first couple times Jeff had seen a fag insult he'd freaked out a little, thinking that maybe somebody had caught him with that guy he'd hooked up with briefly on summer vacation in B.C. But soon he'd figured out that the losers doing this literally just couldn't come up with anything better, and it wasn't worth worrying about.

Parse's palm was still stained with the blue ink of Jeff's whiteboard marker, so it was really obvious that he was the one who'd tried to wipe this away. Which.

Huh.

"Ah," Jeff said casually, leaning back to grab the sock he'd stuck on inside doorknob to use as an eraser ever since he'd lost the other half of the pair in the laundry. "Oilers fans."

Parse snorted under his breath. Jeff just shrugged and wiped away the rest of the marker--taking care not to wreck the disconcertingly buff victorious Golden Bears' mascot that Tagger had drawn in the corner after the team got their first shutout back in November--as he shifted the door open more. "Come on in."

"People know where you live?" Parse asked with an edge of disbelief, heading inside the apartment.

Jeff shrugged again. "People know my college, and they see me around," he replied. "Most folks are decent. There's just always a few assholes."

Parse made a wordless noise. Jeff glanced over; but Parse had his back to him as he was shrugging out of his coat and wandering toward Jeff's desk. "...Alright."

Jeff shut the door, almost reflexively locked it, and then stopped himself.

He _knew_ he was being hyper-paranoid--but he also knew that he'd had Some Fantasies about Parse since last summer, and the less reality got a chance to resemble those the better. Just because Parse was a smartass who liked to chirp him and who'd randomly shown up at Jeff's school a couple times while bored didn't mean that he'd asked to star in any of Jeff's weird jerk-off scenarios. Jeff knew how to keep his shit to himself.

"You want a drink?" he asked, to get his head away from those thoughts.

"Whatcha got?" Parse replied, looking through Jeff's textbooks. Jeff knew what was eventually coming there.

"Uh...coffee, but it's instant." He went to the fridge. "Ginger beer, O'Douls--"

"O'Douls?" Parse asked incredulously.

Jeff hesitated for a second, and then said, "Coaches told one of the guys to start cleaning up his act, so I got some non-alcoholic stuff. So he can still drink with us if we're hanging out, without bein' tempted."

"...Ah," Parse said, unreadable again.

Jeff decided to just set that possible landmine aside and continue forward. He knew about Parse's Juniors rep.

"Lime soda.... This's flat," he muttered, making a mental note for the third time to dump out the half-empty liter of cola already. He'd bought it back when some of the guys had crammed into his studio apartment to watch the Olympics; it couldn't get any flatter by now.

"You got a fridge like a Jonas brother," Parse commented.

Jeff held up a middle finger over his shoulder. "I also got a kvass, and some Molsons if you've got shit taste in beer like the rest of my teammates, _teenager_."

Parse snickered. "What was that first one?"

"Kvass," Jeff repeated, looking over. "Russian beer."

Parse raised an eyebrow; but then he nodded. "That one sounds alright."

The kvass was in a bomber, so it'd been stuck in his fridge for a couple months since that was more than Jeff usually wanted to drink in one sitting and none of his teammates were willing to split his "weirdass beers" with him anymore because they were all wimps.

\--Okay, Mitch had always been game right up until he'd turned out to be allergic to some ingredient in a shandy Jeff'd got and he'd ended up spending a quarter of an hour throwing up in Jeff's bathroom after drinking one beer. So he got a pass.

Jeff checked the date on the bottle and then got a couple glasses out of the cabinet. He was trying to figure out if he should fill the silence with a question about the Aces or if that would be annoying since Parse'd probably had to do a hundred interviews about the team by now, when Parse came over and leaned against the kitchen bar. He had one of Jeff's textbooks with him, a finger stuck inside to mark the place where Jeff'd had it open on his desk.

"Environmental science?" Parse said, eyebrow raised. He dropped his coat over the end of the bar.

Called it. "Go ahead and get the hippie tree-hugger chirps outta your system," Jeff replied, digging through his utensil drawer to fish out the bottle opener. "I dare you to come up with one I haven't heard already."

"Challenge accepted," Parse replied, and _some_ day Jeff was going to learn not to give this guy openings.

But instead of lighting into him, Parse looked back down at the textbook and opened it up. "This 'cause of that stuff with your family's land?"

Jeff blinked as he popped open the bottle. He didn't remember the Aces' GM getting into that much detail about why he'd picked college over signing into the NHL; but maybe he'd missed an interview or something.

"Yeah," Jeff agreed, pouring the beer into the glasses. "One plot's good for pumping for maybe thirty more years, but the other one's prolly gonna be dry within a decade, so we gotta find something else to do with it. And one's already dry." Jeff shrugged. "We have a guy allegedly farming it right now, but I wanna look at different options."

Parse looked back up from the textbook as Jeff brought the glasses over to the bar, eyebrow raised again. "'Allegedly'?"

Jeff shrugged again. "I don't like him," he replied. "He turns the checks in on time, but...you ever just meet somebody, and you get the feeling they're a liar?"

Parse made a noncommittal noise and took a drink of beer.

Jeff _could've_ used the fact that Parse had a really noticeable habit of using hedging speech and never committing himself to an opinion on almost anything other than hockey plays as an example; but he also had self-preservation instincts and common sense.

He dropped the subject. "Anyway. Yeah. I wanna keep the land in the family, so I hafta think about what we can do with it long-term." Jeff shrugged again. "It's still gonna be in my life when hockey's done, so. Gotta prepare."

"Hm," Parse said, still looking at the textbook. He took another drink of beer.

...Yeah, all right, Jeff'd probably talked too much. Parse was just making conversation; he didn't need such a long answer. "How's the wrist?"

Parse made a face but then shrugged. "Better. They said I can probably play again once we're back in Vegas."

"Nice," Jeff nodded.

Parse nodded once himself in agreement. Jeff floundered for something else to say, came up with nothing off the top of his head, and took a drink of beer to buy himself time.

He pulled the glass away with a low whistle after the first mouthful and eyed it.

"Yeah, I wasn't gonna mention it tastes like somebody crammed a loaf of bread into a bottle if this was your favorite or something," Parse said dryly, "but man."

Oh well. It was still worth trying. "Sorry," Jeff said. "I haven't had this kind before."

"'S cool," Parse said. "We got an east coast roadie next month, I can chirp some Russians about their shitty beer."

Jeff eyed him for a long moment, trying to figure out if he was for real. Parse just took another sip of beer without breaking his expression.

"...No," Jeff told him.

Parse winked and gave him a fingergun without looking up. "Yep."

"Jesus," Jeff muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Kid. No."

"Fuck off, you're like twenty," Parse replied cheerfully. Then he gave Jeff a sidelong glance, holding down a smirk. "Though I guess Mr. Responsible's gotta say that, huh?"

" _You_ fuck off, that's the worst nickname," Jeff retorted, before proving that today was absolutely not the day he was going to learn not to give Parse openings by adding, "Try harder."

"Will do," Parse agreed.

Jeff pinched the bridge of his nose again. Parse chuckled and told him, "You make this way too easy, man."

Jeff made a growling noise in the back of his throat and took a way longer drink of beer than was frankly wise. Parse was dead on about the taste.

He put the glass on the counter and turned away to rinse out the bottle instead. A few moments later, Parse asked, "Why'd you come here?"

Jeff frowned and looked over.

"This school," Parse clarified. "Didn't they have colleges in Ontario? Or like...anywhere not Edmonton?"

"Ah," Jeff said.

He shrugged again. "Yeah, there were other places. But the land's in Alberta, so I figured I'd learn more bein' in the right province. And Calgary didn't have the right programs, so. Here I am."

". . . Still," Parse told him, before jerking his head over at the front door.

Jeff shook his head as he turned off the faucet and dumped the bottle in his recycling bin. "I'm not worried about that crap. The oil companies that rent our land are gonna have common sense," he told Parse, wiping his hands off on his sweatpants.

Parse looked skeptical as he picked up his own beer again.

"If they _do_ try to screw us over because they're mad I didn't sign here, then whatever." Jeff lifted a shoulder. "Alright bitches, there's other companies. **We** own the land; _you_ need **me**."

Parse choked slightly on his beer. He set the glass down a second later and wiped his mouth, laughing silently.

"Just sayin'," Jeff commented, leaning against the counter. "If they're that fuckin' petty, it tells me they're not trustworthy business partners. Good riddance. _Some_ body's always gonna be willing to drill, no matter what they think of me personally."

Jeff lifted an eyebrow at Parse, who was still stifling his snickers behind a fist. "Besides, they fuckin' know what kinda team they got here," he added. "This lot knows why I didn't want to sign my career away to that sinkhole."

" _Fuck_ ," Parse cackled.

"Just sayin'," Jeff repeated cheerfully with a grin. Parse snorted out another laugh.

He shook his head a few moments later. "Jesus, man," Parse said, tilting his head to look at him with an expression Jeff had never gotten from him before.

It made Jeff reflexively lean further back against the counter, because the last time somebody'd looked at him with that much amusement and interest, it was that guy in B.C. that he'd eventually gone home with from the bar and made out with for a while--until Jeff'd had to leave because the friends he was vacationing with had gotten too drunk and lost their hotel keys and they didn't want to deal with the front desk while smashed, so they kept texting him to let them into the suite until Jeff finally called Ben and told him and Larissa and Hannah and Dave to knock it off already, he was on his way.

The guy had called Jeff a taxi while Jeff was on the phone, which was pretty decent of him considering that Jeff had probably left him with the same blue balls he'd had himself. Jeff made his friends pay for all of his meals and snacks the next day in revenge for cockblocking him.

But that'd been a guy on vacation whose name he'd forgotten by the start of training camp. That'd been fine.

Seeing something like it on Parse's face-- **thinking** that he was seeing something like it--was not fine. Even _thinking_ of fucking around like that with straight teammates was like pulling the pin on a grenade and then intentionally holding on to it. Jeff wasn't going to do that to himself.

Then Parse shook his head slowly and looked away, picking up his beer again. Jeff exhaled and told himself to get his shit together, and picked up his own glass.

They needed to get out of his apartment. It was too small: from where he was standing, Jeff could see his unmade bed up against the wall in the far corner of the room, behind and to the side of Parse. He needed to stop inflicting that visual on himself. They could go down to the community centre.

\--No, Parse would probably get swarmed there since he'd been on a seven-game point streak before he sprained his wrist. And Jeff tried to avoid that place, anyway. The second time he'd been down there back in the fall semester, the losers' messages on his whiteboard had started soon after. He hadn't gone back since.

Jeff spent a few moments seriously considering faking some kind of laundry emergency to get Parse out of his room and down into the laundry facilities instead; and then he finally came to his senses and recognized that all of this was utterly stupid. He'd invited Parse into his room, he could live with the low-level frustration consequences.

\--Okay, technically Parse had barged into his apartment on almost zero notice, but whatever. That was still no excuse for Jeff to act like a creep.

He drained the rest of his beer and went to rinse the glass out. "How much free time've you got?"

"Eh," Parse replied, twisting his good arm slightly to shake his sleeve back and check his watch. "About--"

"What the fuck is that flashy-ass piece of jewelry," Jeff interrupted.

"In America they're called 'watches'," Parse answered with a half-smirk.

"Fuck _me_ ," Jeff whistled, heading over to the bar for a better look. "Endorsement? Or got it yourself?"

"Endorsement," Parse agreed, holding out his arm. "AP."

Jeff whistled again, lower, as he looked the watch over. It was one thing to know that an exceptionally talented hockey player was lounging against the kitchen bar in his dorm apartment, and absolutely something else to know that Parse had already scored an endorsement with Audemars Piguet as a rookie. **Serena Williams** and _LeBron freaking James_ were AP ambassadors. Just, damn.

But yeah, okay, not actually that surprising. Parse was going to be a legend; anybody who'd spent time on the ice with him knew that. The guy would have to actively sabotage himself, multiple times, to fall out of the hockey world.

And for all Parse's bad Juniors rep, in the little time Jeff had spent with him, he didn't get the impression that Parse was that kind of guy. He had his head on surprisingly straight for a teenager Jeff had been primed to expect worse of.

(Granted, this was prior to Jeff's immersion in The Zimmermann Saga, with its epically stupid culmination of Parse pissing off in the middle of a record-breaking point streak to break curfew and go humiliate himself by trying to get back a guy who didn't have the fucking sense to want him, and Jeff knew he was biased and knew that Parse and Zimmermann had been equally bad for each other when they were younger, but whatever. Parse was his teammate and friend; Jack wasn't. Jeff was going to side with Parse, even when Parse was being phenomenally stupid, because that's what friends did.

And then they _told_ you you were being phenomenally stupid afterward, because goddamn did Parse need to hear it after that absolute trainwreck of shit choices he'd made that night.)

"Nice," Jeff said.

Parse nodded. "You a watch guy?"

"Ah," Jeff said, glancing down at his own. "Not really. It was my granddad's."

Jeff was holding out his arm so Parse could inspect the Rolex when his door opened. "Why the fuck is your door unlocked?" Tagger asked, walking his presumptuous ass right into Jeff's apartment.

"Why the fuck do you keep trying it instead of knocking?" Jeff replied, but by then Tagger was already staring at Parse in shock and going "Holy _**shit**!_"

"Don't you dare--" Jeff started, but Tagger turned and tore out the door.

"Goddammit," Jeff muttered, following.

He leaned out long enough to confirm that Tagger was beelining down the hall to Mitch's room, because Jeff had the equal parts good and bad luck to be living on the same floor as the team captain.

It was bad since Mitch always seemed to naturally wake up at the crack of Christ and had a lousy habit of kicking Jeff's door to get him up for practice; but it'd been pretty great when Mitch caught one of those losers graffitiing Jeff's whiteboard and punched him out.

(That could've gone bad too, since Mitch broke the loser's cheekbone. But when the guy started yelling about calling the cops, Jeff made Mitch help him drag the asshole down to the RA's room and then had Suruthi call the police while Mitch blocked the door so the guy couldn't run off as Jeff called his family lawyer and calmly told her to give him recommendations for a lawyer in Alberta who could handle both hate crime and assault and battery charges, because the guy had been stupid enough to swing back and Jeff was sure as shit always going to say that that asshole had given Mitch his black eye by punching first.

By the time the police arrived, Jeff was on the phone with one of the Alberta lawyers Jane had recommended and the asshole had completely backed down, refusing to talk to the police or admit that anything had happened. The cops gave them all a warning; but with neither Mitch or Jeff or Asshole willing to press charges, they eventually left to go deal with real problems.

Cowards were easy to manage. You just called their bluffs and took them further.

Suruthi chewed him out afterward, because it wasn't cool for him to psychologically attack another person in her own place. The guy was an asshole; but yeah, after Suruthi called him out on it, Jeff had to admit that he'd put a boot excessively hard on the loser's throat in response. He wouldn't've gone that far if Mitch hadn't also been involved--but Jeff's reaction was on him, not Mitch.

Suruthi also had Jeff move into a new apartment on the floor afterward, one that'd been vacated when somebody dropped out. Jeff felt pretty bad after the new resident who'd moved into his old place got her door massively vandalized a couple days later; but she called the police and _did_ press charges when they found fingerprints, so Asshole and two of his friends all got kicked out of the building. Jeff bought the woman dinner for a week to pay her back for the hassle.)

"This is why you're an ass!" Jeff called down the hallway at Tagger, who probably didn't hear him what with how hard he was banging on Mitch's door.

Jeff sighed heavily and went back into his apartment, where Parse was still leaning against the kitchen bar and had an eyebrow raised again.

"If you wanna escape, you better run now," Jeff warned him.

"Nah," Parse said with a shrug. "That wouldn't look good, yeah?"

"Don't give these fuckers an inch, they'll run all over you," Jeff warned, because he liked most of the guys, but still. "When do you have to leave? You're in the press box tonight, right?"

"If I head out at four, I'll be fine," Parse said.

His body language had changed. Parse's smile was polite and camera-ready, like he was mentally prepping for an interview or a fan event. And his glass was empty, like Parse had drained his beer in the half-minute Jeff had stepped away, which was definitely a bad sign.

Nothing in his expression or posture signaled hostility, or having zero interest in getting dumped into doing impromptu fan work. But Jeff had common sense.

He checked his watch: 2:23 p.m. "All right."

Down the hall, Mitch bellowed, "Troy, what **the fuck** is Kent Parson doing in your place and you don't fucking _call me?!_ "

"Motherfucker, keep your voice down!" Jeff yelled back, looking up at the ceiling in exasperation. The RA was going to give them all noise citations by tonight, he was sure of it.

Mitch shouldered his way into his apartment with Tagger right behind him, on his phone and probably texting more guys on the team. Jeff sighed again.

"He's gotta head back at three, and his wrist is sprained, so no autographs," Jeff ordered. "Act like you're a grownass adult who's seen a hockey player before, Christ."

"Fuck you, I'm always a grownass adult," Mitch retorted, before holding out a hand to Parse. "Hey, man. Good game against Calgary the other day."

"Yeah, the guys kicked ass," Parse agreed, shaking his hand. "Hey, so're you the teammates who have shit taste in beers, or that somebody else?"

Mitch turned his head slowly toward Jeff. "The fuck stories've you been telling about us."

"Goddammit, Parse," Jeff sighed without surprise, before dodging as Mitch tried to headlock him. Parse just half-grinned at him.  
  
  
Later, after Parse had left for the game, Jeff threw everybody out of his apartment so he could finally get back to work. He finished the paper, distractedly watched a clearly tired Aces team lose to a fresher Oilers one, pulled together half of a literature review, and eventually gave in and called it a night.

He jacked up his water bill by spending a long time in the shower jerking off, because for fuck's sake, who just popped over to a guy's apartment because he was bored and then went and _looked_ at Jeff like that?

A guy who knew he was fuckin' coming in and asking for it, that's who.

Jeff thought about sitting on his bed with Parse on his knees for him, sucking him off. Parse's snapback had gotten knocked off when Jeff fisted a hand into those messy curls that Parse's hats never fully hid, keeping him down on Jeff's cock.

Not that Parse needed the pressure to make him keep sucking. He wanted this--he knew full well what he was doing, waltzing into Jeff's room with no warning, asking for a beer, and in this fantasy coming around the bar and backing Jeff up against the counter and kissing him, making it absolutely clear why he'd shown up today. In this fantasy, Jeff had locked the door.

Jeff kept holding Parse down on his cock as he came. At first Parse choked and struggled a little, but when Jeff told him how good he'd done so far and that he knew Parse could handle this too, Parse settled down and took it.

When he was finished, Jeff finally eased Parse up off his cock. Parse was breathing hard with his eyes shut and wet, and his mouth was slick and red. He looked so good like that, fucked hard and still recovering, struggling to get his breath back as Jeff wiped a dribble of spit and come off his chin.

Parse swallowed heavily as Jeff brushed his knuckles along his jaw, and pushed harder against his own hand. He'd started palming his cock through his jeans while Jeff was distracted.

That wouldn't do. Jeff had more planned before he let Parse come this time.

Jeff let go of Parse's hair, and wiped off his cock with the edge of the bedsheet before pulling his boxers and sweatpants back on. And then he gripped Parse's bicep and tugged his arm away from his cock. Parse bit out a curse.

"Uh-uh," Jeff murmured. "You came to me, Parse. You're gonna take what I give you."

Parse blinked and looked up at him. His eyes were still half-glazed; either he'd been rubbing himself off for a long time before Jeff'd noticed, or else sucking cock really did it for him. His throat sounded raw as he started to argue: "Swoops--"

"Wow," Jeff interrupted, smiling. He rubbed a thumb lightly along the freckles on Parse's nose, making Parse swallow as he blinked more, struggling to come back up and focus. "That close already, huh?"

Parse flinched and swallowed again, looking away.

"Yeah you are," Jeff said fondly. "You wanted this so bad. Regular little cocksucker, aren'tcha Parse?"

Parse jerked and clenched his teeth before glaring up at him--and fuck, that just looked hotter, having Parse riled up at the same time that he was still on his knees for Jeff.

Jeff's stomach twisted as he pulled back from that particular fantasy. He shouldn't think about what could happen if he kept pushing at Parse's sore spots until Parse eventually fought back.

Parse was deceptively tough for such a wiry guy. If he pushed Parse to that point, Jeff would have to work hard to overpower him and force Parse to finally stop making things worse for himself and just do what he was told. Wouldn't that be something.

Jeff swallowed hard and shoved that thought down.

He didn't want that. --He _shouldn't_ want that. Parse had come to him, willingly, by his own initiative; Jeff wanted him to keep coming back.

In the back of his head, the part of Jeff that he hated agreed with that plan.

After all, it was in his best interest to wait and let Parse keep on being the one who came to him. Then, as long as he was patient, Jeff could break him slow and gentle until Parse didn't even want to resist anymore.

Wouldn't _that_ be something. Making such a tough, stubborn, quick-witted smartass like Parse choose to get on his knees and ask Jeff to do anything he wanted with him--having Parse willingly obey when Jeff held him to that--he wanted to see that.

Jeff shoved that thought down more violently.

Parse was still clenching his jaw, looking like he was seriously considering shoving onto his feet and stalking out.

Jeff made a mental note to ease away from humiliating comments until he had a better feel for where Parse mentally was and then--before Parse could decide to cuss him out and leave--pressed his socked foot against Parse's cock.

" **Fuck**!" Parse choked out, jerking his hips up hard.

Distraction: successful.

"Shhhh," Jeff hummed, letting go of Parse's arm to cup the side of his face. Parse shivered again.

Jeff slid his fingers back into Parse's hair and got a solid grip, forcing him to tilt his head back. Parse swallowed hard and ground against the pressure on his cock.

"These walls are really thin," Jeff reminded him. "So you better be quiet, eh?"

He pressed his foot down a little harder, just to listen to Parse choke down another groan. "You can be quiet for me, yeah?"

Parse swore at him. Jeff shook his head.

He slid his thumb along Parse's lower lip and warned him, "If you can't be quiet, you're gonna have to leave. I'll push you out the door, lookin' like this," and Jeff dragged his foot along Parse's cock hard enough to make his point.

" _Fuck_ ," Parse growled out with a shudder.

And then he bit down harsh on his lip, stifling another grunt as he rocked up against the pressure.

"There you go," Jeff said warmly.

He ran his knuckles along Parse's jaw again, enjoying the way Parse shivered faintly at the affectionate touch. "That's better.

"I knew you could be good," Jeff told him encouragingly. "You just needed a little reminder, eh? Needed to know what it'll cost you if you don't."

Parse shivered a lot harder at that than Jeff expected, jerking his hips heavily against Jeff's foot.

He went still a second later, visibly trying to get a hold of himself. Jeff studied him.

After several long breaths, Parse glanced up at him. He flinched when he met Jeff's gaze and twisted his head to the side.

Jeff tightened his grip on Parse's hair to stop him. Parse clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes closed to shut him out that way, since Jeff wasn't letting him hide his face.

". . . Ah," Jeff murmured.

He gripped Parse's jaw and forced his face back toward him. Parse tried to jerk loose, baring his teeth when Jeff dug his fingers into his jaw and held him still.

"You don't _want_ to be good, do you?" Jeff asked lowly. "You want somebody to **make** you."

Parse shuddered hard and kept refusing to look at him.

"Okay," Jeff said quietly. Parse sucked in a breath. "I can do that for you."

He used his grip to press Parse backward, until he was off-balance enough that Parse had to fumble his good arm back to brace himself up, palm flat against the carpet. He grabbed at Jeff's sweatpants with his other hand, the edge of his wrist brace digging into Jeff's knee. "Swoops--!"

"Shhh," Jeff told him again. "You're gonna do what I make you. And if you don't stop fighting me, I'm gonna make it hurt a whole lot worse."

Parse made an incoherent noise, staring at him wide-eyed as another shudder racked through him.

"Jesus," Jeff said in blissful disbelief. "You really want that. Fuck, Parse, you're so good. I'm gonna find a cabin, I'm gonna take you out in the woods where no one else can hear and just fucking _wreck_ you."

" **God** ," Parse rasped out, before cutting off and biting down on his lip so hard that Jeff was afraid he was gonna tear through it.

He thumbed Parse's lip free and then curled a hand around the back of his neck, tilting Parse back further until the angle was bad enough that Parse would have to rely on Jeff's grip if he didn't want to end up falling backward on the carpet.

"Stop fighting me," Jeff urged. "I'm gonna give you what you need. Later, you can fight all you want. When it's just us. I wanna see how long you last."

Parse swore hoarsely, still straining to hold himself up on his own.

"Stop struggling," Jeff coaxed, resting his forehead against Parse's. "You're just makin' it harder on yourself."

Parse shivered before biting his lip again.

"I know," Jeff told him gently. "I know. That's what you want."

He tugged lightly on Parse's hair, just enough to make him flinch and focus. "Later," Jeff promised. "Next time, I'll take you out somewhere where nobody's around. Just you, me, the woods. Nowhere to run, Parse. And then we're gonna find out together just how much you can take until I break you."

Parse choked down a shaky noise and shuddered hard, rocking up against the pressure on his cock. Jeff tightened his grip on his hair.

"Next time," Jeff told him, tapping his forehead lightly against Parse's own. "You're gonna need your strength then. So stop fighting me now, yeah?"

Parse didn't reply.

Jeff waited. He kept his forehead against Parse's own as Parse slowly regained control over himself and his breathing gradually grew deeper and more steady. It made him wish he had a free hand he could cup around Parse's throat, so he could feel the way Parse swallowed, and took a deep breath, and then swallowed again.

Oh well. Next time. Jeff would buy some rope beforehand.

He made himself continue to wait for Parse's reply. Jeff knew he'd dug in hard to a weakness, prising open a fantasy that Parse clearly wasn't completely mentally okay with even as Jeff pulled out his obvious physical desire for it. He'd pulled Parse up to an edge; he needed Parse to choose to step over it with him.

In the end, Parse never answered him in words. He just eventually took one more long, deep breath; and then he exhaled slowly and relaxed into Jeff's hands.

Jeff planted his free foot on the carpet and shifted his weight, bracing himself to hold Parse up. "There you go," he praised, smiling when Parse shivered again. "That's it."

Jeff kissed him before straightening back up. "That's good, Parse. Now work your hips."

Parse exhaled through his nose, and obeyed.

He rocked steadily against the pressure Jeff gave him, working hard as he rubbed himself off against Jeff's socked foot. It made Jeff wish that Parse was naked, so he could watch his thighs and abs flex as he moved. He'd never let himself look over at Parse in the changing room back during camp and preseason, but Jeff had seen him skate. He knew Parse had to have impressive thighs to be able to reach those speeds.

But he'd made Parse keep his clothes on for a reason. And Parse was wound up enough that they should get to that part of his plan quickly.

Soon Parse was digging his fingers into the thin carpet and gripping Jeff's sweatpants tight as his pace got jerkier. The winter sunlight coming through the windows made Parse's curls bright where they stuck up between Jeff's fingers.

He wanted to tell Parse how good he was doing. But at the same time, Jeff liked how the room was quiet except for the sounds of Parse's rough panting and the soft friction of wool on denim as Parse worked himself closer and closer for him.

And then Parse stopped abruptly, chest heaving as he tried shakily to hold still.

Jeff smiled and rubbed his foot heavily along Parse's cock.

" _Fuck!_ " Parse choked out, jerking up hard against him before trying to pull back. Jeff tightened his grip and held him in place.

"You close?" Jeff asked softly.

When Parse tried to twist backward again, Jeff pressed down a little heavier against his cock. "Better hold still. You don't wanna come in your jeans, do you?"

"-- **Fuck** ," Parse snarled, visibly trembling as he made himself go still again. Jeff rewarded the effort by easing up a little. "Motherfuckin', god _dammit_ Swoops!"

"Yeah?" Jeff answered, smiling wider. "Want me to let you take 'em off and come?"

" _Yes_ , asshole," Parse bit out.

Jeff tightened his grip on the back of Parse's neck until Parse jerked. "You got a real fuckin' mouth on you," he commented. "I oughta do something about that."

Parse shivered and swallowed heavily.

Jeff pressed his foot along Parse's cock again, just enough to make Parse flinch and stifle a small, panicked sound.

"I could make you come in your jeans," Jeff told him lowly. Parse shuddered again. "Then you'd have to walk outta here like that, and make it all the way back to your hotel without being caught. Your coat's not that long."

Jeff rubbed his foot along Parse's cock a few more times, until Parse actively tried to wrench loose again with a sharp keening noise right at the edge of fear. "Fuck-- _Troy!_ "

Christ, it wasn't right how good that sounded. Jeff shivered, trying to push away the thought of everything he could do with Parse if he really did agree to go out to the country with him someday. Jeff wanted to drag that sound out of him, over and over and over again, until Parse was wrecked past the ability to beg and Jeff had no choice but to go easier on him.

He wanted Parse to let him take him apart unconditionally. He wanted to learn how to do that for him. He wanted to find out just who Parse was when Jeff had stripped him down right to his core.

He wanted Parse--smart-mouthed, talented, laid-back, intelligent, dissembling, confounding Kent Parson--to trust him enough that he was willing to show Jeff who he was then; willing to let Jeff bring him down to that place. Willing to give himself over to Jeff like that.

Having Kent trust him that much: wouldn't **that** be something.

Kent clawed at Jeff's sweatpants, eyes wide and panicked as Jeff refused to let him pull free from the pressure on his cock. "Fuck, don't--I can't-- _ **Jeff**!_"

Jeff lifted his foot away.

" **God** ," Kent moaned, jerking his hips into the air. He'd clearly forgotten that Jeff had told him to keep it down, but Jeff decided to give him a pass. Kent had been quiet for him earlier; Jeff was the one who'd pulled him past the point where he could still obey. " _Fuck_."

"Lemme ask again," Jeff said, rubbing his thumb along the side of Kent's throat. "Want me to let you take your pants off and come?"

"Yes," Kent answered hoarsely.

"That's better," Jeff encouraged. "But that's not how you ask for something."

He stilled his thumb and tightened his grip on Kent's neck again. Kent bit his lip.

"One more chance, Parson," Jeff warned softly. "And then I'm making you leave like this."

Jeff asked him one last time, "You want me to let you take them off and come?"

Kent shut his eyes and stayed silent at first, like the stubborn little brat he was. He kept his eyes closed, breathing hard and shallow, as he held out on Jeff to his own detriment.

Jeff waited. He didn't want Kent to leave--he wanted to make him come. But he'd drawn that line in the sand, and now he was stuck with it. He'd meet Kent more than halfway this time, if Kent was willing to try even just a little for him.

Finally, Kent swallowed thickly and took a deep breath. And then he exhaled hard and said, "Please."

Jeff grinned.

"There you go," he said, leaning down to kiss Kent once more before letting go of his hair and urging him up straight. "That wasn't so tough."

Kent bared his teeth at him again.

Jeff probably should've done something about that too; but he was feeling generous. There was always next time.

So instead he warned, "Don't push your luck, Parse," and hooked his hands under Kent's armpits. "C'mon, up on your feet."

Kent went, getting to his feet unsteadily before stumbling forward as Jeff pulled him closer.

Jeff wedged his knees between Kent's own as he unzipped his jeans, forcing Kent to widen his stance around his thighs. It made working Kent's jeans and underwear down a lot harder than it needed to be, but it was worth it to listen to Kent's breath hitch as Jeff spread his knees further, pushing Kent's legs open until he cursed and had to plant his good hand against the wall across the bed to steady himself.

"There you go," Jeff told him, kissing Kent's stomach as he wrapped a hand around his cock. Kent jerked into it with a groan.

"Fuckin' come _on_ ," he ordered, driving into Jeff's palm as he rubbed his thumb over the head of Kent's cock. " _Fuck_ , Swoops!"

Demanding little brat. Jeff bit down on the skin above Kent's belly button, digging his teeth in until Kent swore loudly, and half-considered dragging this out longer and making Kent beg for real.

But nah, he didn't really want to. Kent had been about as good for him as he was probably capable of, and with everything he'd managed to take this afternoon, Jeff wanted to reward him. "Plant your feet and hold still."

Kent did his best. Jeff gripped his hips hard as he sucked him off, half to help brace Kent and half to keep him from driving too hard into his mouth. Kent fought back at first; but when Jeff dug his nails in hard as a warning, Kent settled down and took it the way Jeff'd decided he was going to get it.

Kent leaned his weight heavily against the wall and wrapped his braced arm along Jeff's shoulders as he curled forward over him, panting. Jeff patted his hip in response, since he couldn't tell Kent he was being good with his mouth full of cock and he didn't want to pull away to talk, not while Kent was starting to make more and more stifled little desperate noises as Jeff sucked him off.

If Jeff were nicer, he would've let Kent get on the bed too. But he liked feeling Kent strain to keep himself steady on his feet as Jeff dragged him closer and closer to coming.

When Kent's voice cracked on a moan, Jeff dug his fingers into his hips until he could feel the bones. Kent cursed loudly.

He wondered if Kent would have bruises the next time he had to strip down for a workout or practice. Jeff wanted him to.

He wanted to mark Kent deep enough that Kent couldn't just go back to the Aces and return to his normal life and forget about today. He wanted Kent to hold down a shiver every time he saw those bruises. He wanted Kent to look at them in his hotel mirror tonight and jerk off as he remembered Jeff's hands and voice this afternoon, steadily working the fight out of him until Kent gave himself up.

Jeff dug his fingers in until he broke the skin. He wanted Kent to **remember** him.

Kent swore louder and clawed at his shoulder, his hips jerking hard in Jeff's grip as he started to come for him. " _Fuck_ \-- **Jeff**!"

He'd been holding back for a while, but that--imaging how Kent might gasp his name as Jeff finally brought him off--did him in. Jeff braced a hand against the shower tiles and jerked himself off harder until he came.

Afterward, he shook the water out of his eyes and rinsed off his hand, and reached for the soap.

As he started lathering it in the washcloth, Jeff half-heartedly wrapped up the fantasy, trying to push away the feeling that he was pretty goddamn fucked up to be having such creepy sex fantasies about a guy he didn't know that well. To be having them about anyone.

But he already knew that. That was why Jeff kept his shit to himself. As long as he never actually did any of the stuff he thought about to anybody, it was just fantasies. He wasn't hurting anybody just thinking, right?

Jeff sighed, and told himself to stop. He always wound up going in circles when he started debating all of that.

He knew pretending that he'd gotten Parse off too--that Parse had been just as into it as him--didn't make him any less creepy; but whatever. He still had to wash off. Jeff might as well use the time to lie to himself, instead of excoriating himself yet again for liking what he liked.

After he sucked Parse off until he came for him, Jeff kept it up until Parse's legs finally gave out.

Jeff pulled off of his softening cock and caught him, tugging Parse's jeans and briefs off and tossing them at the floor before easing him down onto his lap. Jeff shifted back on the bed until he was leaning against the wall, pulling Parse closer as he did.

Parse slumped against his chest, resting his forehead on Jeff's shoulder as he caught his breath. Jeff slid a hand under his shirt and rubbed his back slowly. "There you go," he murmured. "Good job, Parse."

Parse grunted into his shoulder. Jeff half-smiled and bopped the side of his jaw against Parse's temple, and kept rubbing his back.

Eventually, Parse took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

"Nnnnlgh," he sighed against Jeff's shoulder, before rolling his head to the side. "Yer an asshole."

Jeff chuckled and patted his back. "There's that mouth again."

"Yep," Parse mumbled, resting his forehead against Jeff's neck. "Try harder next time, Troy."

Jeff scratched his fingernails up Parse's spine, making him shiver faintly. "Will do." 

Parse chuckled quietly and slumped a little heavier against Jeff's chest, warm and relaxed and satisfied in his arms. "Yeah, alright."

There were more things Jeff knew he ought to do. He needed to take Parse into the bathroom and wash off the spots where he'd broken Parse's skin--it was only a little blood, but that wasn't a good reason not to take care of him. He should check in with Parse about his knees too, since it must've been rough for him to kneel on the thin carpet for so long.

He should probably have Parse take a full shower, so he wasn't stuck going back to his hotel room smelling like sex and looking pretty well-fucked. Jeff could find something in his fridge to make into a decent snack while Parse was cleaning up; they could eat it before Parse had to leave for the game.

But thinking about all of that was starting to make this whole thing too depressing. Jeff was just taunting himself with these little intimacies that he wanted and knew full well would never happen.

So he dropped the fantasy there and shut off the water. It was time to get to sleep.

*

When Jeff finally rinsed off all the dishes in the sink the next morning, he noticed beer residue on several of them. Like somebody had dumped their beer into his sink fast enough that it'd splashed.

Jeff thought back to how Parse's glass had gone from mostly full to empty in the half-minute that his back had been turned, and thought _...Huh._


	2. ...you've been discreet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that the sexual fantasy in this chapter drifts toward play-acted dubcon before backpedaling hard, because while Kent's into it, Jeff is still having significant mental struggles with some of the things he likes.  
> ~~~  
>   
> 

After his last sophomore year final exam, Jeff packed two bags and his equipment and flew down to Kansas to join the Aces's farm team.

He played in the final regular season game and in four of the Wichita Sovereigns' six playoff games, before the team lost in the first round.

Jeff had been running mostly on adrenaline at the abrupt change to a new city and team and set of dressing room dynamics and play level and travel system. While undressing after the final game, he could feel himself cratering. Especially after having to go through losing a season for the second damn time.

He tried to block out the looming wave of depression and exhaustion by focusing on his immediate responsibilities. He had to fly back to Edmonton, clear out his dorm apartment, and get a van to take everything home to Toronto.

Once all that was finished, it'd be time to start his off-season conditioning. And that would get his head back into thinking about next season, and what he could do to make it go better so his teams went farther. As long as Jeff only focused on the next necessary thing, he'd be fine eventually. He just had to get through this bad dip, and then things would go back to normal.

One of the assistant coaches tapped his shoulder. Coach Traikos told Jeff to come see him after his cool-down.

When he did, Coach Traikos gave him a one-way ticket to Vegas and told Jeff he was flying out to join up with the Aces, who were currently six games deep into the first round of playoffs. His equipment was already packed for transport.

Jeff stared at him blankly, and then said the only possible response. "Okay."

Somebody'd organized a taxi for him. It swung Jeff by his hotel to get his bags and took him out to the airport. He slept hard through the flight into Nevada.

A car was waiting for him at the airport. The driver had an Aces' staff ID; he drove Jeff to a hotel and then took his equipment to the Aces' practice facility to get it set up for tomorrow morning's practice. The GM had emailed Jeff the team schedule.

At the front desk, Jeff requested a wake-up call as he collected his keycard, then went up to his room, and found out the card didn't work.

He went back down to the front desk, got another card, went back to his room, and found that that one didn't work either.

Jeff went down for a third damn key. One of the staff went up with him this time, possibly assuming that Jeff had somehow made it twenty-one years on this earth without understanding how _doors_ worked, because frankly at this point Jeff was starting to wonder the same thing. At what point did you get so tired you couldn't figure out how to stick a card in a slot?

The woman got the door open and gave him his key back. Jeff thanked her with an equal amount of embarrassment and exhaustion, finally hauled his bags inside, and collapsed into bed.

Pain in the ass keycards aside, he had to admit it was pretty sweet how playing professionally meant all the hassle of travel got handled for him.  
  
  
The next morning, Jeff dragged himself out of bed and found that his hair gel had exploded in his suitcase, destroying all his clothes except last night's suit and the spare shirt and underwear in his carry-on bag.

Jeff spent a minute straight cussing out the gel as if it were sentient and had done this on purpose, and then got a taxi to the Aces' practice facility.

The first thing he did was greet several of the guys he knew from camp and preseason. The second was to scan for the coffeemaker and beeline toward it.

Jeff found the table with a few guys he'd spent ice time with during preseason. One of the Aces' alternate captains was with them, so Jeff checked in with him about how the series had gone internally so far.

Reboul was so blatantly grudging about his answers that Jeff quickly decided he'd be better off just talking to the coaches.

When the alt left to get a second helping, Patsy elbowed Jeff in the side. "Don't let Rebby get to ya," he said. "Him and Parse fucking went at it after yesterday's loss. He's still irritated."

Jeff blinked, processing that, and put his coffee back down. "Him and _Parse?_ "

Patsy cackled. Another one of the guys shook his head.

"Fuck yes, Parse," Fils grumbled, stabbing another sausage and accidentally clanking his fresh cast against his orange juice. Jeff reflexively caught the wobbling glass and shifted it aside. "Playoffs flipped a fuckin' switch in that kid. He's gone some kinda hardass."

Jeff raised an eyebrow and twisted around to look over at Parse's table. Only one other guy was eating with him: Vovk, the Ukrainian guy who'd been really quiet and kept to himself during preseason; Jeff couldn't remember his nickname. Parse was wearing earbuds and watching something intensely on his phone, pretty much ignoring the rest of the room.

"Huh," Jeff said.

*

He left breakfast early and hunted down the Aces' laundry room. The staff said he could drop off his clothes after Jeff explained what'd happened, and one of the women found him a spare tracksuit he could wear in the meantime. Jeff thanked her profusely and went to find a coach to see if he had enough time to go back to the hotel before practice.

Coach Kurlansky gave him the go-ahead, so Jeff got yet another taxi and told the guy he'd pay for his idle time if he'd wait on him. He speed-walked up to his room and found that the friggin' keycard wasn't working _again_.

The front desk staff gave him a new one that, quelle surprise, also didn't work.

"There's a fucking fire ax down the hall," Jeff threatened the door. "Don't think I won't go Jack Nicholson on your ass if you keep this up."

The door was not intimidated. Jeff went down to get whatever number keycard this made now; another staff member came up with him again, and again managed to get it open in one try.

"Jesus," Jeff said, rubbing his eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't what I'm doing wrong."

"Don't worry about it," she told him sympathetically, handing over the card. "Sometimes the the code takes a bit to get from the computer to the lock. I apologize for all your trouble."

It was a very Vegas-hospitality-worker kind of lie, meant to soothe his feelings and keep him from feeling embarrassed or getting angry, but Jeff still appreciated it. "Thanks again, ma'am."

By the time he got back to the practice facility, he was running so late he basically had to throw his clothes at the laundry room while thanking the staff profusely and apologizing at the same time for being rude. He barely made it to practice on time.  
  
  
The head coach ran Jeff on what felt like the third line during practice, putting him together mainly with one guy he knew and three he didn't. He bounced Jeff between center and left-wing.

After practice was the general team meeting, and then lunch, and then Jeff somehow shattered two of his limited goddamn number of sticks trying to cut them on the Aces' saw.

He was stalking down the hallway, looking for an empty room he could go scream in for five minutes to shake off his increasing irritation, when he turned a corner too sharply and banged into one of the Aces' staff.

"Sorry," Jeff said automatically, stepping back and telling himself to get it together. It was just some minor inconveniences, not the end of the world.

The staff guy gave him a long look, eyes narrowing. It was the equipment manager: definitely high on the list of guys you didn't want to piss off. Good job, Troy!

 _Knock it off_ , Jeff told himself. That wasn't helping. "Sorry, uh--Nick? You okay?"

"Yeah," Nick replied. "Hold on a sec," and then he gripped Jeff's shoulder hard and stared at it.

". . . Uh," Jeff said, after several seconds.

"You get cursed lately?" Nick asked.

Jeff blinked. "No?"

"Anything weird or unusual been happening to you?"

He'd bounced through five cities as he went from college to the AHL to the NHL in under a month, but Jeff was pretty sure he shouldn't imply that getting called up through the Aces' organization was weird. "Uh.... I had some bad luck the last day, but it wasn't anything big."

"Go see Andy," Nick told him, letting go of his shoulder. "Get it fixed now, before it gets worse."

Jeff wasn't inclined to argue with any of the Aces' staff when he was currently living out the very rare dream of being on a NHL team going through the Stanley Cup playoffs, so he nodded. "Okay. He's, uh...?"

"Dr. DeFranks," Nick told him. "Go back, take a left at the first hall, second door on your right after the exercise room."

"Gotcha. Thanks," Jeff said, and went.

He'd barely stepped through the doorway into the doctor's office when something above the door frame beeped three times. Andy looked up from some papers on his desk with a whistle. "Cursed, huh?"

"I guess?" Jeff said. "Nick told me to come here. I feel okay, though."

Andy jerked his chin at a small box sitting above the doorway. "Box says you have a mid-level one on you," he replied, with significantly more calm than Jeff was beginning to feel.

Andy nodded at the chair opposite his desk and reached for the phone. "Go ahead and sit down. I'm gonna call the curse team. Tell them what's been happening recently. They'll send somebody over."

"Okay," Jeff agreed, pulling out the chair.  
  
  
Jeff related the minor hassles that'd happened to him since last night--the keycards, the gel and clothes, his sticks--and then wracked his brain trying to think of anything more significant as Andy and the curse team guy argued about levels.

"I don't know what to tell you," Andy repeated. "It beeped three times when he came in. Nobody else was around to trigger it."

"Hm," Rafi replied, clearly doubtful. "All right. I'll send Jeremiah. He'll look at your box while he's there. These are really minor troubles--even if it just took last night, a three should've escalated more by now."

Andy looked back at Jeff. "You're sure there's nothing else?"

He shook his head. "Sorry."

"Box probably just needs maintenance," Rafi replied. "Your company's been taking some hits this year."

"You can say that again," Andy drawled, and there was definitely a story _there_. "All right. Have you gotten his paperwork yet?"

"What's the name again?"

"Jeff Troy," Andy answered, turning around in his chair and opening a file cabinet.

There was some vague keyboard noise over the speaker for a few moments. ". . . Doesn't look like it," Rafi replied. "New guy?"

"Yeah. Check the 'called-up players' folder," Andy replied, pulling out a file and kicking back to his desk. "I've got a paper copy here Jer can use. He just joined last night, it's probably still getting filed--hold on.

"Troy," Andy said, looking up. "You've got a fortune charm?"

"Oh, shit," Jeff replied, before catching himself. "Sorry. Yeah. I forgot about that. I got it as a baby."

He hadn't thought about that charm in a long time. His parents had followed the usual practice and gotten the tattoo done in a way that kept it hidden from casual observance: it was on his armpit, done in custom ink to match his hair color. After Jeff'd hit puberty, it'd become essentially invisible even when he was shirtless.

He should find out when he needed to get it retouched again. He was fifteen last time, so probably thirty?

Jeff made a mental note to write that down somewhere so he'd do it as Andy tched at the papers. "I should've checked the file sooner," he said. "Yeah, says here it's a fourth-tier blessing."

The curse team guy whistled. "All right. It probably **is** a 3C, then. Plateaued minor inconveniences fifteen hours out sounds right if you've got a birth-on 4B reducing the harm."

"Can you check the box anyway?" Andy asked. "Kent's gonna burn that thing out in a couple years if I can't convince him to get warded."

Rafi laughed. "Hey, we appreciate the business," he joked, before adding seriously, "Of course. I'll have Jeremiah out there in twenty. Mr. Troy?"

"Yeah," Jeff said, sitting up now that the wave of curse jargon was over.

"Will you give me your cell phone number?" Rafi said. "Jeremiah'll call once he arrives."

"Gotcha," Jeff answered, before telling it to him.  
  
  
One interrupted tape review later, Jeff was cleansed and feeling like he'd just been slammed with a really intense head cold. The curse specialist told him to keep his electrolytes replenished and to rest, and said it should be over within a day. Jeremiah also recommended Jeff rent a car immediately: even with laws about regular checks and maintenance, taxis and ride-shares were known curse vectors.

His clothes were washed and clean by the time he was done. They weren't even stained, which was sweet.

Patsy gave Jeff a ride to his hotel to grab the rest of his stuff for the flight to Phoenix, and chirped him the whole way for getting cursed within twenty-four hours of setting foot in Vegas again. Jeff decided that was a fair trade-off for the ride--mostly because he felt way too lousy to bother trying to chirp back--and intentionally didn't mention that the curse team said it'd probably happened when he was leaving Wichita.

He managed to get into his room on a single try at last, and felt way more victorious about it than was reasonable.

And then Patsy drove them to the airport to fly south for the Aces' seventh game against the Coyotes.

*

When they landed in Phoenix, it was a hellscape of 33° _in late April_. Jeff seriously considered cutting the sleeves off all his shirts. Nobody'd see it under the suit jacket.  
  
  
Even though he'd gotten over the cleansing by the next day, he wasn't put on the roster for the final game. He watched from the press box with the rest of the scratched players.

Parse got a hat trick. Jeff belatedly figured out it was the first one of Parse's career when the Aces fans in the arena absolutely lost their minds.

"Je _sus_ ," Fils said admiringly, leaning forward and resting his cast on the glass barrier. "That kid'd carry the team on his back right to the Cup if he could."

Jeff nodded, elbows braced on the barrier and chin propped on his fists. Parse was playing like he didn't know what it was like to lose, and he had zero intention of ever finding out.

"Fuck," Fils said, quieter, shaking his head; and this time there was an undercurrent to it.

Jeff blinked and unfocused from the ice, looking over. "You alright?"

"Yeah," Fils said, blatantly trying to shrug it off.

Jeff nodded once slowly, and then looked back at the ice and let the silence extend.

Fils shifted his arm on the glass, and then dropped it to take a drink of water. Jeff kept waiting.

Eventually, Fils set the bottle back down back down by his feet and exhaled slowly. "It's weird. Knowing I'm watching the future happen."

Jeff looked back over. "'Weird'?"

Fils jerked his chin at Parse and the rest of the guys waiting by the bench, listening to the coach while the Coyotes' ice team cleared hats off the ice. "That speed. Offense. That's where we're going. The Aces, prolly the league. Guys like me aren't gonna cut it anymore."

Jeff frowned. "Nah, man, you're--"

"Naw," Fils said steadily. "Thanks, Swoops. But I'm not lyin' to myself. I'll be a free agent after this season."

Fils shrugged his good arm. "New GM wants a new kinda team. It's gonna be built around you fast kids, not old enforcers like me."

Jeff floundered for a reply. What Fils was saying was harsh, but it was probably true. He'd thought the same thing when he'd first watched the Aces play in Edmonton.

Finally, he just thumped Fils on the shoulder a couple times. The older man shrugged a shoulder again and nodded, staring at the ice as the guys got ready for a face-off.  
  
  
By the end of the game, the Aces had won their first franchise playoff series in a 4-1 victory over the Phoenix Coyotes.  
  
  
The dressing room was chaos afterward. Jeff could feel the manic energy sweeping through everyone, himself included, even as he stayed back along the wall and left the other guys to it. He hadn't played a single regular season game with the Aces; he hadn't done anything to help the guys get to this point. Maybe that'd change with the semifinals, but right now this celebration wasn't for him.

It stung.

Losing would've been worse, obviously. But being in the midst of a team who'd just won and knowing he'd done nothing to contribute to their success also sucked.  
  
  
Things finally started calming down on the bus back to the airport, as the head coach reminded them they were up against San Jose next and that the Sharks--the top-ranked team in the playoffs, Coach Lewis pointed out--were going to be more rested, since they'd clenched their series in six games.

"Back to work tomorrow, boys," Coach Lewis said. "Keep your heads level."

Jeff fidgeted with the sweaty collar of his shirt -and told himself to work hard. He wanted to be a part of the next round.

*

The semifinals were brutal. They lost the first three games in a row.

The coaches did their best to keep the guys level-headed, talking about what had worked after each loss and dissecting what they needed to fix before the next game. But the energy in the dressing room got tenser and tenser as the guys began to face the gut-sinking possibility of getting swept out of the playoffs at home.

Jeff had to get an x-ray after game three to make sure the puck to the collarbone he'd taken in second period was just a really painful cut and not a broken bone. The doctor cleared him, but when Jeff got back to the dressing room the doors were still closed. The media were chatting outside, waiting for access.

That was a bad sign.

But fuck it, Jeff was wearing half of his still-sweat-damp gear and carrying the rest, and he didn't feel like standing around the camera crews after yet another loss. He keyed himself into the room.

Rebby and Parse were shouting at each other.

Jeff dropped his stuff and yanked the door shut as fast as he could. Then he scooped his equipment up off the alcove floor and headed into the dressing room proper.

Nobody was getting between the two of them. It felt messed up: all the guys who were still in the room were either stripping off the last of their gear or hydrating, and actively ignoring the fact that Rebby and Parse looked ready to punch each other in the face.

Was this normal in the NHL? Probably not, even for playoffs. Right?

But Jeff kind of got it. Rebby had been an alternate since the Aces' first year since the team didn't have a captain yet, and he didn't seem like the kind of guy who appreciated other people getting in his business.

And Parse was almost certainly taking the Calder this season and was going to be a franchise face, so getting on his bad side wasn't a great career move.

So Jeff decided to follow the rest of the guys' example, and just let them hash it out between themselves. He hadn't been with this version of the team for even two weeks yet; maybe this wasn't that big a deal? Maybe Jeff had assumed wrong when he'd thought Patsy and Fils had sounded like Rebby and Parse's last argument was out of the ordinary.

"The _**fuck**_ you think you are, you fuckin' little--!" Rebby snarled, as Parse shouted over him: "Not the guy who can't catch a _fucking_ pass anymore!!"

Goddamn but Jeff really hoped this argument was out of the ordinary.

He tried to tune it out. He was already pissed about losing a third game in a row, about feeling elimination breathing down his neck, about potentially being on a losing team for the third time in a row in one season. He was too exhausted for this shit. He just wanted to go back to the hotel and sleep until he had to get up tomorrow and get prepared for game four.

Jeff tried to tune out the shouting and focus on getting the rest of his gear off, but it was hard. Rebby and Parse were _loud_.

And anyway, Parse had a point.

Reboul **was** screwing up a lot of passes lately. Jeff knew the guy was playing through a foot injury, but Reboul was way slower than he'd been in preseason. It was screwing up his line, and the defensemen too.

If Reboul was that injured, there had to be a scratch or a call-up who could replace him. Jeff didn't want to get swept out of the playoffs because one old guy dragged them down.

...No, guys made mistakes. It happened.

Even if you practiced hard every day, you could still get screwed over by a bad bounce on the ice. And Rebby was playing through a foot injury, one that was bad enough the coach kept putting him on maintenance days instead of into practice. It wasn't like he wasn't working hard.

It sucked to have mistakes and injuries happen in the playoffs when there was only so much a team could weather before it got eliminated, but they still happened. Nothing was perfect.

. . . There was a really bad energy developing in the room.

Jeff couldn't pin it down, but he got the feeling that he wasn't the only guy getting more pissed at Rebby for tonight's game. Nobody else was saying anything--like you could get a word in edgewise between the shouting, anyway--but it was just . . . something. A feeling. The longer Parse tore into Rebby, the more guys' body language didn't look right.

Fuck it. If an alternate captain was escalating this problem instead of shutting it down, and nobody else was stepping in, then Jeff would. He hadn't thrown his life into semi-chaos to come play for a team with a bad dressing room culture.

If interfering put him on bad terms with Rebby and Parse, whatever. They were grownass professionals who needed to get their shit together.

Jeff had already lost everything once before, when he'd refused to sign a draftee contract with Edmonton.

The worst thing that could happen if Vegas decided he didn't fit into their culture was that Jeff went back to uni, and finished his degree and got to work, like he'd already been expecting to do with the rest of his life. He didn't have enough to lose to ignore this any longer.

"Look guys, calm down," Jeff said, getting between Rebby and Parse and pushing them apart. "This isn't helping. Media's gettin' antsy--"

Parse shoved him away hard.

Jeff stumbled back in surprise.

And then he made a bad fucking choice and caught Parse's arm before pushing him away from Rebby, backing Parse up against the stall divider and pinning his arm to his chest.

"Calm _down_ ," Jeff ordered, frustrated that Parse was letting himself get this pissed off without thinking about how he looked to the rest of the room. "You're smarter than this!"

Parse bared his teeth, eyes wide.

Way too wide. Parse was pissed as hell, but behind that was--

Jeff had a breath to realize just what a bad mistake he'd made, and then Parse gut-punched him.

Parse slugged him for **real** , fuck. Jeff doubled over, trying to get his breath back and fighting down a hit of nausea. The dressing room finally got more active.

By the time Jeff braced a forearm against the stall divider and managed to straighten up, Scrappy was moving Parse away from him. A couple defensemen were hauling Reboul out of the room. Parse was staring at Jeff over Scrappy's shoulder, but Jeff couldn't see enough of his face to figure out his expression.

"Fuckin' alright," Jeff grunted, shoving away from the divider.

And then he made himself finally do the smart thing and walked out.

Jeff dumped the rest of his gear on a bench in the change room, yanked a pair of workout shorts out of his locker, and hit the bikes.

He ignored Reboul and the other guys in the exercise room and picked a bike as far from them as possible, because a fucking thirty-year-old alternate captain should've had enough goddamn experience and common sense not to get in a shouting match with a nineteen-year-old rookie, and if Reboul fucking _didn't_ then Jeff had no goddamn time for that immaturity when he'd been literally fucking sucker-punched over it.  
  
  
By the time he finished cooling down, Jeff could no longer ignore that he wanted to keep being pissed at Rebby for making stupid choices because he didn't want to think about the stupid ones he'd made himself.

He knew better than to react like that. Especially if it was to somebody pushing back at him, especially if they were doing it literally. _Especially_ when it was Parse, the guy Jeff knew he had to be a lot more cautious around since he was still having messed-up fantasies about him sometimes.

He knew better. But he'd let himself knee-jerk react, and then Parse had looked at him like--

Jeff had seen that expression before.

Last year, when his college team's captain had caught one of those assholes tagging Jeff's whiteboard with fag slurs and slugged the guy for it, Jeff had made Mitch help him drag the guy down to their RA's room after the asshole had started threatening to call the cops on Mitch, and then told Mitch to block the door so the asshole couldn't escape while the RA called the police and Jeff called his family lawyer.

Mitch had done it; but after his adrenaline from the fight wore off, he'd looked increasingly uncomfortable as Jeff calmly psychologically terrorized the asshole into telling the police to that nothing had happened and he wasn't pressing charges.

Mitch'd never said anything about it. But he pulled away from Jeff afterward.

Not enough that it was too noticeable--he still kept kicking Jeff's door every morning to get him up for practice. But Mitch hadn't looked at him as much, or talked to him as easily, and he stopped sitting by Jeff on roadies.

As far as Jeff could tell, Mitch had never talked about that afternoon to anybody else. The only guy who really even noticed when things got weird between them was a mutual friend: Tagger had eventually asked if things were cool between Jeff and Mitch, after the eighth straight day that Mitch asked Tagger instead of Jeff to spot him in the weight room.

Jeff had lied casually and told him yeah, far as he knew. Tagger had looked dubious, because he wasn't dumb. But he'd let it go.

At least with Jeff. He must've asked Mitch the same thing, because the next day Mitch asked Jeff to spot him once he was off the treadmill.

It wasn't until a couple weekends later when the team had a three-game win streak--including a shut-out--that things between the two of them returned to normal. It took the whole team riding high on euphoria after that weekend for things to finally rebalance between them.

Jeff knew he had to count himself lucky that that'd happened. He'd scared Mitch by going so hard against that asshole, even if Mitch would probably never admit it or at least wouldn't call his reaction that.

Jeff had felt guilty about it. Just not enough that he was willing to actually talk to Mitch about that day. That would've required Jeff to look harder at the kind of person he didn't like to acknowledge he was; and it turned out Jeff hadn't valued his friendship with Mitch enough to face that.

He knew it made him a coward. He'd been lucky things had eventually worked out without much effort on his part.

But he couldn't keep counting on luck forever. He had to actually talk to Parse this time.

Jeff had stepped into a fight he wasn't involved in, and he'd let himself react when Parse reflexively tried to shove him out of it. He hadn't thought he'd been that rough pushing Parse in response, but he'd still set something off.

Because behind the anger, right before he'd defensively lashed out, Parse'd had the same look as had Mitch back then: afraid that he'd been backed into a corner he didn't know how to escape.

At least until Parse had forced his way out by slugging Jeff. Which was still a dick move, but whatever. Jeff could shrug that off.

Mostly because he didn't want to think too close about _why_ Parse had reacted so extremely to--and if he was gonna own this Jeff might as well be honest about what he'd done--getting shoved against a wall with his dominant arm pinned.

If Parse had just punched him because he'd been angry, that'd be straightforward. That'd be easy to understand.

But Parse had punched him because he was getting scared.

Jeff was fine shrugging off getting slugged because he didn't want to think about why **that** was Parse's reaction. People didn't panic-react like that unless they subconsciously believed they had to.

And Jeff was like 98.3% sure he'd never given Parse a reason to feel threatened by him before, which meant somebody else had caused Parse to feel like--

\--Jeff didn't want to think about it. Even skating around the edges of that idea made him pissed off at whoever'd done that to Parse.

Maybe done that to Parse. Fuck. Jeff didn't know.

It wasn't his business. He and Parse weren't close friends. Jeff wasn't even sure they counted as friends at all right this second. Parse was his teammate. Jeff had no business getting pissed on his behalf at some maybe-imaginary past person who'd possibly caused Parse to feel excessively threatened about being physically intimidated. Especially because even if any of that happened to actually be real, there still probably wasn't some past sexual thing under the surface of it, because Jeff was reading that wrong like a fucking creep who looked at his teammate like that.

He was doing a real shit job at this "not thinking about it" thing.

...Because he didn't want to have to start thinking about how much it was going to suck to try and work this out with Parse.

 _Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck_ , Jeff whined mentally, dragging it out for his entire shower.

And then he dried off and got back in his suit, and went to see if Parse was still in the building.  
  
  
Jeff had forced himself to act tonight mostly because he'd assumed that Parse and Rebby would've cleared out as fast as they could, meaning Jeff could tell himself he'd tried while getting a reprieve until tomorrow morning.

So it kinda sucked when he asked Scrappy if Parse was still around and the man said, "Yeah.

"In coach's office," Scrappy told him, buttoning his shirt slowly.

 _Goddammit_ , Jeff thought. So much for hoping he'd have until tomorrow to figure out what to say.

Oh well. "Thanks, Scraps," Jeff told him. "How's the shoulder?"

"Okay," Scrappy nodded, like he wasn't the last guy getting dressed. His tie and suit jacket were still sitting on the bench, like Scrappy was working himself up to struggle to get them on. Or waiting for a painkiller to finally kick in so they'd be easier to deal with.

But Jeff knew better than push. There were a bunch of guys on the Aces' farm team who played the same tough guy role that Scrappy did for Vegas. Guys like that didn't like admitting pain, except maybe to their wives.

So instead, Jeff just said "All right," and clapped Scrappy carefully on the elbow of his good arm before heading up to the coaches' offices.

When he got upstairs, Parse and an assistant coach were talking in the office doorway. Jeff hung back by the stairs and texted his parents that he was heading to the hotel to sleep and he'd meet them for breakfast tomorrow.

He felt kind of bad blowing them off when they'd flown down to Vegas in the middle of the week to watch this and Thursday's game, but it'd been three losses straight now. Jeff was losing the desire to talk to anybody the closer the Aces fell toward playoff elimination.

He ignored the latest round of sympathetic texts and emails and voicemails for the same reason. He'd deal with it all tomorrow.

Jeff put his phone away and slid his hands in his pockets, and proceeded to go through the usual awkward effort of finding something to look at while waiting for other people to finish talking so he didn't make it weird by staring at them like he was eavesdropping.

Eventually, Parse and Paul wrapped up. When Parse turned around and saw Jeff waiting by the stairs, his eyes narrowed before his expression went blank.

Cooool. Great start right there.

But Parse came over, mostly because he didn't have another way to get downstairs unless he wanted to loop around to the freight elevator, and in hindsight Jeff maybe shouldn't have picked this spot to waylay Parse in order to apologize for cornering him earlier? But he was already here now, so. Ad astra.

"Hey," Jeff said, straightening up from the wall and falling in step beside Parse as he headed down.

"Hey," Parse replied neutrally.

"I, uh..." fuuuuuuuuuuuck this sucked, just shut up and do it Troy, "--can I give you a ride home?" Did Parse have a car? Probably. This was stupid, Jesus Christ.

Parse gave him a side-long look. "I'm gettin' a ride with Scraps."

Jeff frowned and paused on the steps, and then had to pick up his pace when Parse didn't stop. "What the--he separated his shoulder, man, he shouldn't be drivin'. I'll take him too."

Parse glanced over at him again. This time, Jeff got the feeling his automatic response had shifted something.

"Nah, he's roomin' with Arkady," Parse replied. "I was riding with them."

"Ah," Jeff said. That made sense; the Aces' goalie coach was from...Kazakhstan? Thereabouts. "Yeah. Okay. I'll uh, see you tomorrow." _Fuuuuuuuck_.

"Let's just fuckin' do this," Parse replied bluntly, starting to take the steps two at a time. "Lemme let Scraps know," he added without looking back at Jeff.

...Still not great. But all right.

Jeff followed after him at a normal pace instead of Parse's aggressively striding one, mostly because Parse obviously wanted distance and partly because his shoulder still hurt from blocking that puck.

By the time he reached the changing room, Parse was holding Scrappy's suit jacket up so the other man could get his bad arm through it.

"Just carry it," Parse told him. "It's like 60-somethin' out there, you don't need it."

"I'm okay," Scrappy replied, easing into the sleeve.

Parse raised an eyebrow and gave him a long, flat look.

"Mouth that chirps to start fights can shut up," Scrappy said dryly, making Parse laugh.

"I'll take care of the next one then, huh?" he grinned. "Bet I could take Thornton."

Jeff was spared from fighting down his automatic response of " **No** , you _lunatic_ " by Scrappy snorting.

"First round hat trick, second round Gordie Howe hat trick," Scrappy said with a half-grin, adjusting his jacket. Parse cackled.

"Third round, Mario Lemieux hat trick," he agreed. "Fourth round, Cup. Sounds alright."

Scrappy braced a hand against his shoulder to hold it still as he snickered. Jeff pinched the bridge of his nose and wondered what it said about him that this side of Parse kept being attractive. Probably nothing good.

Parse lightly slapped Scrappy on the back. "See ya later, Scraps. Tell Arkady to drive like stop signs are real, yeah?"

"Mission impossible," Scrappy replied. Parse snerked again.

"Bye," Scrappy told Parse before heading out. He nodded at Jeff as he left; Jeff raised a hand in farewell as Scrappy passed by and said, "See ya."

After Scrappy was gone, Parse slid his hands into his pockets and hooked his thumbs out before looking at Jeff. He wasn't smiling anymore. "Where ya parked?"  
  
  
Most of the players' section of the lot was empty when they got to Jeff's rental car. Jeff unlocked it, and pulled out his phone as he got in. "Where're you staying?"

"Reboul's place," Parse said without emotion, shutting his door and reaching for the seatbelt.

Jeff managed not to physically or verbally react to that, but holy hell was it hard. He opened the GPS. "What's his address?"

Parse snorted quietly under his breath, so maybe Jeff hadn't not-reacted as well as he'd tried. But instead of saying anything, Parse just gave him the address.  
  
  
Once they were on the highway to Henderson and the GPS had gone quiet, Jeff told himself to stop finding excuses.

"Hey," he said, glancing over. Parse was still staring out the passenger window, like he'd been doing since they'd pulled out of the lot. "Sorry about earlier."

Parse didn't reply for a while. Jeff looked over again as the silence dragged on; but he couldn't make out Parse's face in the window's dim reflection, and he didn't want to take his eyes off the road for too long. The highway had a lot of traffic even this late.

Finally, Parse shrugged. "It's okay."

Jeff shook his head. "No it's not. I shouldn't've done that."

Parse jerked a shoulder. "I started it."

"That doesn't make it _okay_ ," Jeff replied--harsher than he intended, because it pissed him off how Parse said that like he thought it justified anything done to him, what the _fuck_. "I knew better. I should've walked away, you didn't **deserve** , fuck--I'm not that kinda guy!"

Parse raised an eyebrow and half-turned toward him, eying at him in his peripheral vision.

Jeff huffed and made himself relax his grip on the steering wheel. Went way too hard there Troy, walk it back.

"You 'starting it' doesn't make what I did okay," Jeff said a little later, flipping the turn signal and moving into the far right lane. "I knew better. I shouldn't've done that to you. Sorry, Parse."

Parse kept watching him for a long time. Jeff made himself focus on the road.

". . . Swoops. You remember the part where I socked you in the gut, right?" he eventually asked.

Jeff exhaled through his teeth again.

Parse looked out the passenger window again. "We're cool, man," he said. "I shouldn't've done that either. Guys get worked up during playoffs."

"That's not a fucking excuse," Jeff replied.

"We're cool," Parse said, sharper. "I shouldn'ta hit you either. I shouldn'ta started a fight with Rebby. We're cool, alright?"

. . . Jeff was getting the feeling that Parse was reading more into what he'd said than he meant.

He wasn't going to accept 'guys get worked up in playoffs' as an excuse for what he'd done. But it didn't sound like that's what Parse was hearing. It sounded like Parse was hearing Jeff say that that wasn't an excuse for his own behavior either.

Which, well, yeah. Parse knew better. Jeff knew he was smarter than that.

He was tired and burned out from yet another loss. So was Parse. This wasn't the right time to have this conversation. Jeff'd wanted to get it over with, but this wasn't the right time. They oughta talk about it later instead, when they were both settled down and willing to hear what they were actually saying.

"Okay," Jeff replied. "Yeah. Alright."

Parse exhaled hard and twisted away, glaring out the window again.

Jeff had made a slew of bad choices tonight. He...well, no, the dressing room had been getting pretty fucked up, so he didn't feel bad about stepping in between Parse and Rebby's fight. But he shouldn't have reacted to Parse. He shouldn't have tried to force a conversation between them so soon.

Oh well. Nothing to do now except learn the mistakes.

Jeff breathed out slowly and focused on the highway exit signs. He'd get Parse home soon, and then they could try this again tomorrow. Or later. Someday soonish, whenever felt right.

Jeff was off the highway and navigating Henderson's streets when Parse finally said, ". . . We're cool, Swoops. I mean it."

Jeff pulled a hand away from the steering wheel and rubbed his face. "...What I did wasn't okay, Parse. I shouldn't have shoved you around like that."

"I shouldn't've hit you either, man," Parse replied. "...I shouldn't have fought with Rebby."

Parse propped his elbow on the windowsill and rested his chin on his fist, staring out at the street lamps. "I knew what I was doing."

(If Jeff had known back then that Parse was a low-grade charmer, that admission would've had _way_ more impact.

But he didn't learn that until years later, because it wasn't something Parse normally talked about. The trait made him charismatic when he actively used it, but it was too minor to be recorded on his medical paperwork. Jeff only found it out after he got a top-level ward: one strong enough that it occasionally got triggered by Parse's dressing room pep talks during bad games.

And that didn't happen until it was too late to prevent the fallout of Jeff being targeted with a potentially fatal curse.

If he'd known earlier that Parse was able and willing to use his ability to charm people as a weapon--if he'd known Parse had just admitted to deliberately turning the dressing room against Rebby while angry at the man--Jeff probably could have guessed how Parse would react to Jeff getting slammed with a deadly curse.

Or maybe not. Jeff understood the worser parts of Parse's personality, but he still expected the best from him.

It got him blindsided sometimes, but he'd made his peace with that.)

But Jeff didn't know any of that then, so he didn't say anything. After a long moment, Parse went on.

"Paul said the same," he replied, shrugging a shoulder once more. "I shoulda known better. This shit's fuckin' up the team."

Jeff hesitated for a long moment.

And then he decided he'd rather say it than not. Realizing that he had nothing to lose was making him reckless tonight. "Yeah, it is."

Parse tightened his jaw and stared out the window.

"You don't get the same breaks a normal rookie would, Parse," Jeff told him. "You're gonna be captain soon. You don't get to think about just you."

Parse tilted further away.

"...I'm not sayin' it's fair," Jeff continued, because saying that out loud made it clear just how much it _wasn't_. "But that's what it is. You're stuck thinkin' about the Aces first, because there's not much difference between you and the team. You know?" He fished for an example. "Like how somebody says 'Lemieux,' and you think 'Pens.' You gotta think about what other guys are seeing when you act."

Parse rubbed his face, still turned away. "They ain't gonna--it's not like I'll be promoted if I don't--"

"Don't act like I'm stupid, Parse," Jeff said shortly, because one of his worst habits was getting pissed when he thought somebody was insulting his intelligence.

He'd get better about it slowly. But at the time, it meant he missed what Parse was trying to say.

It'd take Jeff a couple more years to realize just how good Vegas's GM was at reading people and telling them whatever would make them the most amenable to feeling and doing what Greg wanted.

Like picking up a teenager in the draft who was hyper-sensitive to how precarious a professional athlete's reputation was, and ruthlessly leaning on his fears and imposter syndrome to not only keep Parse in line but also to keep him afraid that he was a toxic asset to the team in order to underpay him for years.

Or like consistently being blunt with Jeff about the business nature of his interest in him, in order to preemptively address Jeff's awareness that he was being played. Though Jeff didn't mind that; it cut the bullshit at least.

It was the way Parse kept being manipulated that made Jeff low-key dislike Greg, and eventually made him actively warn Parse and Scrappy--and a few other Aces' players he liked--to get everything they deserved out of their contracts, even if it meant arbitration.

Jeff rarely succeeded. He was up against hockey's team-focused mentality, the media and fans' tendency to criticize any player who wanted to be paid what they were worth, a fucked up salary cap system in the middle of transitioning away from underpaying players in their prime years and overpaying declining players to make up for past shortages--which inconveniently put hell on the cap structure in the late 2010s right when Jeff and Parse and Scrappy should've been pulling higher salaries--in addition to a GM who'd been around long enough to know how to use all those factors to maneuver guys into lower contracts.

He kept trying anyway. Jeff had an advantage that most other players didn't: he'd always known what his future was going to be after hockey.

It made him more resilient than guys who were focused almost exclusively on extending their careers, to avoid having to think about the crippling void of what they would be once they were no longer a hockey player.

Jeff exhaled and pushed away the annoyance. "You know how good you are.

"Even if you're assigned to alt next year, you're still gonna be captain eventually," he pointed out. "You don't get to act out in the dressing room like other guys. It's not fair, but that's what bein' elite means."

"Fuckin'--" and then Parse cut off and clenched his jaw harder, glaring out the window.

Jeff slowed down as he followed the GPS into Rebby's neighborhood.

"I'm not saying it's fair," he repeated, making another turn. "It's not. But that's what you got." Jeff looked over. "The alternative's bein' a guy who doesn't live up to his hype, and you're better than that, right?"

"Fuck off," Parse snapped, and okay, yeah, that hadn't come out right. Jeff was friggin' tired, motivational speeches were hard.

"Yeah, alright," he replied. "I just mean, you're gonna be the biggest thing for the Aces this generation, Parse. You have to start acting like it now. You don't get a learning curve, not when a letter's going on your jersey next year."

"Fuck you think y'know so much about--" Parse started, before cutting off again.

Jeff took another turn.

". . . My reputation's shit because I pissed off the GM network and went to uni," he said, after a long moment. "The Oilers wanted me to choose a short-term career in an ageist sport over my family, and I refused.

"I'm only here 'cause Greg took a risk signing me _and_ respected my decision not to sell out my future for the present." Jeff tightened his jaw slightly. "I still know it's gonna haunt me."

He turned onto the cul-de-sac and started coasting toward Rebby's house. "It's bullshit, it's not fair, and it sucks," he said flatly. "Doesn't change that's how it is. 

"Everybody knows how good you are, Parse," Jeff repeated, pulling into Rebby's driveway. "You don't get a learning curve like other rookies. You're stuck with this burden, 'cause the alternative's worse. I know you're smart enough to see that, so start livin' it."

Parse exhaled hard through his teeth and undid his seatbelt.

"Sell the responsibility speech to Rebby," he muttered. "He's got a letter already."

"And he didn't fuckin' live up to it tonight," Jeff said tersely. "He shouldn't've escalated that fight. Why do you think he's gettin' replaced?"

"-- _Jesus_ ," Parse said, staring at him--and okay, yeah, Jeff was talking way out of line now. Everything about tonight had been a bad idea, fuck.

But then Parse slumped back into his seat and started laughing silently, rubbing his face.

Jeff hesitated. After another moment, he shifted the car into park.

". . . Jesus," Parse finally muttered, dropping his hands. He forced a semi-grin. "Don't ever say that to his face, Swoops. He'll fuckin' kill ya."

"Yeah, prolly," Jeff agreed. "...You doin' okay?"

"I'm fine," Parse replied, popping open the door. "Just gotta win the next game."

"I mean here," Jeff said, gesturing to the house, because maybe he wasn't clear or maybe Parse was willfully pretending he didn't understand. It was hard to tell.

Parse paused, halfway out of the car.

"...It's fine," he said eventually, still turned away from Jeff. "I got somebody lookin' for a place for me. They just didn't trust me livin' on my own here this--see ya tomorrow, Swoops."

"Yeah, see ya," Jeff said, because there was a _lot_ in that particular cut-off statement but this still wasn't the time to ask.

Parse shut the door and headed for the house, raising a hand briefly over his shoulder. He didn't look back.

Jeff decided to that was probably the best possible realistic ending to tonight. He set the GPS for his hotel and reversed out of the driveway.

*

The Aces lost the Western conference semifinals to the San Jose Sharks in five games.

*

At least Jeff's family was in town for the sole game they won.

They had to return to Toronto afterward--his parents had work, and his little brother had to get ready for church camp--so they weren't there for the Aces' final loss. They called him to commiserate the same night; Jeff missed it since he was busy getting x-rayed again.

He slept hard through the flight back to Vegas, dosed on painkillers for his two broken ribs. A guy who lived near his hotel dropped him off.

Jeff and Patsy didn't talk during the ride. There wasn't much to say.

*

A couple days later, the team cleaned their stuff out of the clubhouse and did their exit interviews with the GM.

Jeff's went pretty normal. But then after Greg was done with his notes, instead of telling Jeff he could head out, the man folded his hands on his desk and asked, "Have you set up your fall schedule at university?"

"Uh," Jeff replied. "Not yet. I think registration opens in July."

Greg nodded.

"When we talked about bringing you here, I told you I'm willing to wait until you graduate," and Jeff should've caught on to what this was about quicker, "and that's still true."

"Huh," Jeff said, because that wasn't where he'd expected that to go.

Then he caught himself and shook his head slightly. "Sorry. Uh, thank you."

Greg just lifted a shoulder and tilted his head briefly. "That's what I promised," he replied. "This is a business. Nobody gets far with a reputation for being unreliable."

Jeff wasn't dumb enough to believe a general manager wouldn't ultimately put club needs above a verbal promise to an individual player. But he also definitely wasn't dumb enough to say that out loud.

And Greg had a point. When you ran a business, you kept a long memory of suppliers and partners who'd screwed you over. "Okay."

"That said," Greg continued. "Land management sees big changes over time, correct? Especially if you're looking at alternative uses, not just farming or ranching."

Jeff hesitated, trying to figure out how best to noncommittally agree.

He took too long at it, because soon Greg gave him a knowing half-smile.

"Obviously I have a personal interest in seeing you joining the Aces' organization full-time sooner rather than later," he agreed. "You've been a solid player for us, here and in Wichita, on the ice and in the dressing room. You've kept a steady head despite coming in during some pretty intense playoff games."

"Thank you, sir," Jeff replied, trying to ignore the vague feeling that there was something weird about how Greg'd said that.

"I'm not gonna pretend it wouldn't be a significant advantage for the Aces to have you as a committed player going forward," Greg said. "But I also think it would benefit you too.

"I understand your dedication to look after your family and its assets. I respect that," Greg told him. "My thinking is, since you know that's your ultimate goal, wouldn't it be more beneficial to pause your degree and complete it after retirement?"

The GM lifted his hand with a spreading gesture. "Then instead of potentially having to put in more time and money returning to school to learn any new legal and mechanical developments, you'd complete your degree with the latest knowledge available."

". . . Hm," Jeff said, hopefully politely noncommittal.

Greg nodded. "As I said, I'm not a neutral party. And you don't have to answer now," he added. "Head home for the summer. Finish healing. Start your conditioning. Think about it."

Greg lifted a shoulder again in that performatively light-hearted shrug that Jeff was starting to get familiar with. "After all, I might be making this sound simpler than it would. I don't know if the University of Alberta would let you pause a degree for a couple decades," and _that_ was an optimistic view of Jeff's professional hockey career.

"I know this would be a big decision," Greg told him. "It would affect a lot of plans you're made. But I've been tasked with rebuilding this club after the near-bankruptcy, and I know a player with your skills and temperament could be a critical part of our new core.

"I'm not going to promise you'd immediately start with the Aces," he warned. "We might find it's better to have you begin in the AHL, until you've adjusted to the professional regular season's pace. But I'd consider it a personal favor if you seriously considered the idea."

"--Yeah," Jeff said reflexively, because knowing that he was being flattered didn't mean he was totally unsusceptible to it. "Of course. Yeah. I'll think about it. Uh, thank you for thinking of me like that."

"You've been playing your heart out since you got here," Greg replied. "It hasn't gone unnoticed."

Jeff scratched the back of his neck and tried not to smile like a dummy.

"Thank you for considering it," Greg told him, holding out a hand. Jeff shook it.

"I'll be in Toronto at the end of month for the combine," Greg added, settling back in his chair. "We could meet then. Does that sound good?"

"Yeah," Jeff agreed, trying to mentally calculate how much time that gave him. "Sounds good."

"Excellent," Greg replied, standing up. Jeff reflexively followed suite. "Thank you for your time, Jeff. And your honesty."

"Sure thing."  
  
  
He called his agent as soon as he was in the car.

*

Jeff was packing up and getting ready to check out of the hotel when he finally figured out what was weird about Greg's comment about Jeff being a steady player.

 _"On both the ice and the dressing room,"_ he'd said, or close enough.

It was a weird compliment to specify both places. Jeff had thrown everything he had into those five playoff games, but he hadn't done anything in the dressing room.

He'd just tried to fit in, hanging out with the guys who'd welcomed him back and trying to determine what had changed since preseason. Jeff had talked to other guys when they looked like they were taking a loss too hard, and he'd done a shooting practice with the backup goalie when Boxy'd asked, but that was base-level stuff. That couldn't count.

The only thing Jeff'd done that resembled stepping up was his catastrophically failed effort to break up the fight between Parse and Rebby.

And that had happened when the room was closed off to everybody but the team. Even the equipment guys hadn't been allowed in yet.

Meaning it should've stayed between the guys. Meaning that it was definitely weird for the GM to reference it.

Unless one of the guys had talked to the front office.

But who'd be that kind of rat? The guy had to understand he'd be making Rebby and Parse look bad to the people who controlled their contracts and their reputations inside the league's admin network. It was a dick move.

But maybe this was normal in the NHL? This place was a pure business, not a business disguised as an athletic activity like college hockey. Maybe this was just one more thing that was different.

Jeff sighed and zipped his suitcase shut.

He really wasn't interested in doing another year of this weird mental bouncing between amateur and professional hockey, let alone another three. It was annoying trying to figure out all the differences.

Jeff pulled out the hotel notepad he'd been scrawling his pros and cons list on, and added that one to the pro side.

*

After three weeks of multiple conversations with his parents, his agent, several players he trusted inside Las Vegas's organization on both the Aces and the Sovereigns, very possibly every person in the University of Alberta's registrar office, a few guys from his college hockey team, his Golden Bears' coaches, and a guy who played for Ottawa who worked out in Jeff's gym, Jeff kissed two years' worth of tuition goodbye and told the Aces' GM he wanted to commit to playing professional hockey full-time.

*

Greg made an intentional effort to salvage Jeff's reputation during an early training camp interviews by telling the media that the two of them had had serious conversations about his decision to put college on hold to play professionally. Greg told them he knew Jeff hadn't made the choice lightly.

Jeff appreciated it. It made him look a little less like a flighty, unreliable guy who kept making and breaking declarations--choosing college over the NHL, then signing with Edmonton a year later only to immediately go to Vegas, and then dropping uni entirely a year after _that_.

He returned to Vegas early for the pre-camp scrim, because that would look good to the front office and other players. But mostly Jeff wanted as much time as possible to readjust to the Aces' garbage slush ice.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, when he had to lean against the bench rail yet again after two measly skates across the rink and drag more ice off his blades. "Who the hell thought hockey in the desert was a brilliant idea?"

"League can't keep makin' money if they don't keep goin' to non-traditional markets," Parse said, downing water next to him.

"You are the most cynical person I ever met," Jeff replied dryly, because okay, true, but you didn't just **say** that _in the middle of an NHL rink_.

"Don't aim so low, you got plenty of time to meet somebody worse," Parse grinned, before dropping the bottle back in the shelf and skating off. Jeff exasperatedly tossed the slush at his back.

It didn't hit, of course. Damn but that guy was fast.  
  
  
Jeff went hard right from the start of camp. Life wasn't like last year anymore; now he was fighting for a roster spot for real.

And he was up against guys who'd been playing professionally a lot longer. Including a few who were reasonably irritated to have extra competition from the flighty trade chip who'd spent nearly all last season at uni.

There wasn't anything for it. Jeff understood the guys' annoyance, but he'd made the decision to go pro. So now he was committed.

Especially since he wanted to start finally having a positive reputation. The only way that was gonna happen was if Jeff proved that he really was dependable, while letting his skills speak for themselves.

So he stayed laid-back in the dressing room and the clubhouse, put in the work to get to know the guys who were dubious about him, and made a deliberate choice to ignore the one guy who took his pranks a little too far.

Even struggling with Vegas's ice, Jeff knew that once he'd nailed down the coach's system, he would play better than Brosh. He wasn't going to waste time letting the guy distract him.

*

It turned out that even though Vegas definitely dialed up the theatrics for playoffs, it never totally dialed them down. Las Vegas, as a city and concept, very possibly did not know the meaning of totally dialing things down.

"They do this _every_ game?" Jeff asked, as they passed by the crew prepping for the parade. It was preseason, for crying out loud.

"Yep," Patsy agreed, shaking his head.

"What the hell is this city," Jeff replied, not for the first or last time in his life.

"Vegas, baby," Parse replied cheerfully. "Now get out there and sell some desert hockey, canuck."

"I can't with you," Jeff grumbled, for the first but absolutely not the last time in his life.

*

The Aces had made Parse an alternate during the summer. It wasn't surprising--he was Kent Parson--but it still manufactured a careening mess of power dynamics within the latest leadership group.

Though it went better than it could've. Rebby either read the writing on the wall, or else it was just easier for him and Parse to work together now that Parse had moved into his own place. Or both.

Or something else; who knew. Rebby had an annoying habit of trying to low-key put Jeff in his place by continually reminding him that he was a rookie, as Jeff got pulled further into the leadership group over the season. Jeff wasn't real inclined to spend time around the man outside of the clubhouse and the obligatory team bonding activities.

He made an effort _in_ those spaces, though. Mostly to avoid the appearance of some kind of faction thing going on between Parse and Rebby.

Parse was trying a lot harder now that he was wearing an A, making a real effort to be a maturer leader of his team. But there were still plenty of guys around who remembered the friction between him and Rebby during bad stretches last season.

It was exhausting, frankly.

Jeff just wanted to hang out with the guys he liked, work with the guys he was neutral on, and avoid dressing room politics. He didn't really like being increasingly perceived as part of the leadership group.

But he couldn't make himself turn guys down if they wanted to watch some extra tape to review errors or losses. Or tell their backup goalie no if Boxy asked him to hang back after practice for some extra shooting work.

Jeff had the time available. And he didn't want to be a dick. And anyway, he'd thrown all his chips on Vegas now, so anything that made the team better was good for him too.

But the path of questionable intentions that _really_ dumped Jeff down into leadership group member hell was the fact that occasionally, Parse would call a ceasefire in their ongoing chirping war--the one Jeff knew he was losing miserably but refused to admit to--and would ask him for advice.

It wasn't too serious, initially: mostly hashing out hockey plays. But slowly, as the season went on, Parse started picking Jeff's brain more and more about other guys on the team. He started asking Jeff for his ideas on how to handle problems that were starting to bubble up between teammates, or between a player and one of the coaches.

And Jeff couldn't make himself turn down the opportunity to get closer to Parse like that. Even when he knew full well that he was doing his idiot crush no favors.

Jeff liked watching Parse develop his interpersonal skills alongside his hockey talent. He liked seeing Parse get more comfortable in his alternate captaincy over the season, as that part of his responsibilities got easier for him.

Parse seemed less stressed this year, at least compared to the impression Jeff had gotten from last year. He liked thinking that he'd helped with at least a little that, even though the really cool part was seeing Parse chose to do the work.

But really at the core of it, Jeff just liked being trusted by Parse.

He wanted to be a guy Parse always felt he could go to for sincere advice, even if Jeff had just thrown a slush-ball at Parse's face thirty minutes earlier during practice because it was the only way to make the guy slow down the chirps for like ten seconds during speed drills because how much goddamn lung capacity did Parse _have_ anyway?!

At the absolute core of it, Jeff couldn't bring himself to reject Parse's tentative efforts to build a real friendship with him.

He knew he was being stupid. And sure, he was irritated about falling into the stereotype of crushing on a straight guy, instead of hooking up with an actually gay dude. He lived in **Vegas** , for chrissakes. Grindr existed.

But Jeff had first started trying to be friends with Parse because he'd wanted to learn what was underneath the surface of that laid-back attitude Parse used to keep himself reserved from the rest of the guys. Now that Parse was literally handing him opportunities to do just that, what was Jeff supposed to do? Have sense?

Well, obviously. But he still didn't want to.

Whatever. Jeff had dug this grave of one-sided sexual attraction for himself, he'd live with it.

*

During a three-game roadie through Quebec and Ontario, the team had a free afternoon in Toronto. Jeff had planned to visit his parents after lunch with Parse and Scrappy; but that was before a friend called him with a follow-up about some mutual friends' breakup yesterday.

Well, Hannah was still Jeff's friend. Dave would be out of his life after this chore was done.

When Jeff got a minute to himself after listening to the voicemail, he called Larissa back and told her to tell Ben that he'd go with him to get Hannah's stuff back, and to _keep the guy at her apartment_ until he got there.

Also, quit feeding him booze. Jeff got what Larissa was trying for: Ben was normally a mellow drunk. But this wasn't a normal situation.

Larissa got a little snide about that, because she and Jeff had already had one heated argument about how much she'd been getting into bar culture since moving into her girlfriend's apartment. But Ben must've still been as angry as he was when he'd called Jeff last night, because then she just said, "All right."

He ran into Scrappy at the elevators, which was handy.

Jeff slapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, Scraps. Sorry, gotta bail on you guys for lunch. I gotta help a friend pick up some stuff."

"Okay," Scrappy replied.

Then, to Jeff's surprise, he added, "You want help?"

Jeff thought about it for a half-second, and then told himself not to be a jerk. "Nah, that's cool. Have fun, don't let Parse chirp me too much. I'll see you at dinner."

Scrappy frowned slightly in confusion. "Parse cancelled."

Jeff blinked. "--Yeah?"

Scrappy nodded. "He texted this morning. He's visiting sick kid."

Jeff checked his phone. There it was: a text from Parse saying he had to cancel on lunch, a friend of his billet family had a son recovering from minor surgery and they'd asked if he could swing by and cheer the kid up. "Huh."

Jeff slid his phone back into his pocket and thought about asking Scrappy if he'd really meant it about offering to help.

And then he told himself again not to be a jerk.

He knew Scrappy had been making an effort to hang out with him during the last few months. Jeff was doing the same thing, adjusting his schedule both at and away from the clubhouse to create time for it.

After all, he was becoming friends with Parse lately, and hanging out with Parse frequently meant also hanging out with Scrappy. Jeff wanted to get along with him.

It wasn't hard. Scrappy didn't open up easily--or at least he didn't usually initiate conversations or talk a lot--but the more time Jeff spent on the Aces learning team in-jokes, the more he suspected that was a defensive measure. Scrappy didn't seem to like being the focus of a lot of attention, and he definitely didn't like it when the attention was a joke about his improving English.

But away from big groups of people, if it was just Scrappy and Parse and Jeff grabbing lunch after practice or something, Scrappy was a lot more relaxed. He was more inclined to add his thoughts in a conversation or to chirp--mostly Parse, but he was starting to include Jeff more, too.

Jeff liked him. It was a work in progress, but he wanted to get to know Scrappy more. Not just to be on good terms with a close friend of Parse, but because Jeff legitimately wanted to know more about who Scrappy was when he felt comfortable.

Like the hint Jeff had gotten last season, when Scrappy and Parse had been joking around in front of him in the change room. Or that time during playoffs when Jeff had overheard Scrappy chirping the beat reporter about the egregious amount of articles the man had written on Parse's rookie season.

Jeff had been trying on some new gloves in the equipment manager's area when he heard them outside. "New week," Scrappy'd said almost totally deadpan, "new three articles about Parse."

"It was only two last week," Mark had replied without missing a beat, making Scrappy snicker.

Jeff had snorted hard and then stifled it as Scrappy came into the equipment room.

There was clearly more to Scrappy underneath his outer layer of protective quietness, and Jeff couldn't deny he was interested. He wanted to keep being allowed glimpses past it. He wanted to get to know who Scrappy was underneath.

All of which meant that taking advantage of Scrappy today by asking him to come along while Jeff got Hannah's stuff back, basically treating Scrappy as extra muscle, would be so far beyond assholish Jeff didn't even know how to measure it.

. . . Except.

He really didn't want to try and do this all on his own, if Ben was buzzed or worse. Jeff wasn't sure he could keep Ben and Dave separated if things started going bad. He wasn't going to risk an injury just to break up a fight.

But if he had backup....

And it wasn't like Jeff would want Scrappy to actually get involved, if anything went bad. Definitely not. It was just that, if Scrappy happened to be standing in the room while Jeff and Ben got all the stuff, then hopefully that would make Dave think twice about escalating anything.

He was trying to justify doing something he knew he shouldn't.

Gaaaaaaah. Fine. Jeff already knew he could be an asshole. He wouldn't let anything go that bad. He'd apologize to Scrappy afterward.

Maybe it wouldn't even be an issue. Maybe Dave'd had enough time to cool off and start feeling shame, and he'd just hand over Hannah's stuff and then go fix his shitty self into a decent man, and everything would go smoothly.

Maybe also hell would freeze over and Satan would start an expansion team. If you're gonna do it then just do it, Troy.

". . . What'd you have planned today?" Jeff asked. "After lunch."

"I'm visiting friends in Etobicoke," Scrappy answered, as the elevator arrived. "At two."

"Ah," Jeff replied, checking his watch as they stepped inside. It was barely 11:30, and it didn't take long to get on the expressway to Etobicoke from Hannah's dorm, but....

"I rented a car," Scrappy told him, hitting the button for the lobby. "I can help. If you want."

Jeff did, even though he knew he really shouldn't. "...Yeah. I'd appreciate it. Thanks, Scraps. I'll buy you dinner for this, yeah?"

"Filet mignon," Scrappy agreed, with that deadpan tone he always attempted but always ruined a little because he couldn't hide a small, sly grin when he did it. "Maybe lobster too."

Jeff snorted and bopped him in the bicep with his forearm. "Yeah, all right."  
  
  
After they reached the Village, Jeff directed Scrappy into the alley Larissa's apartment building opened onto.

If Scrappy recognized what all the rainbow-themed everything they were driving past--street signs, crosswalks, flags in windows and on shop walls--meant, he didn't say anything about it.

Maybe they didn't have pride stuff in Ukraine? Jeff thought the rainbow was a pretty universal queer symbol by now, and he knew Scrappy had grown up in a decent-sized city. But he hadn't been raised in, like, Kiev, so who knew.

Or maybe Scrappy just didn't feel a reason to mention it. It was hard to tell with him.

Whatever the cause, Jeff appreciated the silence. He hadn't exactly thought out beforehand that asking Scrappy for help would mean taking a teammate smack into the gay quarter, like a dumbass.

Sure, it wasn't like Jeff had expected Scrappy to turn into an offended homophobe when they crossed into here. He didn't seem like that kind of guy. But still, Jeff hadn't made it this far under the radar in the hockey side of his life by not passing himself off as straight. Or at least by being more cautious than this.

As they trundled up to the parking area behind the apartments, Jeff could see Ben pacing around the blacktop. Larissa was sitting in a plastic chair by the bins, smoking.

Jeff made an irritated face and a mental note that she'd picked up another bad habit from her girlfriend.

He didn't think much of Clare. But she was Larissa's first girlfriend, and she'd let her move in when Larissa's parents cut her off after she came out, so Jeff tried to keep his mouth shut about his unwanted opinions. Most of the time.

After they pulled in next to Ben's SUV, Jeff introduced Scrappy to his friends before telling Ben to give him his car keys.

"I'm **fine** ," Ben insisted.

"You cannot afford what you'd owe me if Scraps and I get scratched tomorrow because you got us mixed up in a DUI," Jeff replied dryly. "You think I wouldn't tell Mom and Dad whose fault it was they didn't get to wear my jersey the _one_ game a year I'm in town?"

"There's a chance Vegas could make the finals," Larissa said with a faint smile, dropping her cigarette into a coke bottle half full of ashy water. "Maaaaaybe you could get back here in June."

"Eh, let's not pretend the Leafs are gonna make the playoffs this year either," Jeff replied, meeting Ben's eyes with an excessively broad grin.

"Traitor," Ben grumbled, cussing Jeff out a little as he fished his keys from his pocket and handed them over. "I hope Vegas gets shut out."

"Dick," Jeff drawled, heading for the SUV's driver door.

Jeff drove slowly down to Dave's resident building so that Scrappy could keep up with him in the traffic. He deliberately parked illegally in front of the building entrance, waved for Scrappy to pull up close behind him, and then told Ben, "Alright, you got a list?"

"Yeah," Ben answered, starting for the front doors at an angry stride.

Jeff caught the back of his jacket and pulled him to a stop. "Nah, you stay here and watch the cars. Me and Scraps'll get it. Send me the list."

" _Fuck_ no, that fucking--"

"You're the only one with a U of T ID," Jeff interrupted, waving at the cars. "If Scraps or I stay, they're gonna chase us off a lot faster than you. You have to stay and watch the cars."

Ben glared at him, because he wasn't an idiot. He knew full well what Jeff had just pulled.

But he hadn't figured it out soon enough, so now he was stuck with either living with it or making a scene. And Hannah had made them promise not to do the second one.

"You think you're so fucking clever, Troy," Ben growled out, opening his phone and going into his messages. Jeff just shrugged.

Once Ben had texted him a screenshot of Hannah's list of the stuff Dave wasn't giving back, Jeff headed for the doors with Scrappy following behind him.

He wasn't actually sure how he was going to con their way in. Neither Ben or Hannah's uni IDs were keyed to open this building, and Jeff's old University of Alberta ID that he kept forgetting to clean out of his wallet was zero use.

But luckily, a group of people came out while he and Scrappy were walking up. All Jeff had to do was grab the door after one of the women held it open an extra beat with a casual "Thanks."

"What are we to get?" Scrappy asked, as they headed for the elevator bank. When Jeff looked back, Scrappy pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the entrance. "He's really mad."

"Yeah," Jeff said tiredly. "His cousin, my friend Hannah, she broke up with the guy we're gonna see. But she left behind some stuff and he's not returning it, so I said I'd get it for her."

Scrappy thought about that, and nodded. "Okay."

Once the elevator was heading up, Jeff fished his leather gloves from his suit pocket and held them out to Scrappy. "Hey, uh. You should wear these."

Scrappy frowned as he slowly took them. "Why?"

Jeff exhaled through his teeth.

"Just...in case," he answered. "Dave's being a real asshole about this, so. Wear 'em to avoid, uh. Fingerprints."

Scrappy kept looking at him. Jeff was rapidly becoming too ashamed to meet his eyes, so he watched the elevator lights tick their way up instead.

He'd brought the gloves along for the same reason he was handing them over to Scrappy now: Jeff wasn't interested in giving Dave any ammunition for some bullshit invasion and theft charge.

But if things broke that bad, whatever, Jeff had known the guy for a few years. His lawyer could figure out something to defend Jeff's presence. But Scrappy had never met Dave, so he needed the protection more. Jeff really, really fucking shouldn't have brought him along, he should've had the idea about how to keep Ben downstairs and away from Dave sooner, he was being a phenomenal asshole.

"Hey, actually, head on back down," Jeff said, as the elevator reached the floor. "It's cool. Keep Ben company. Or head out, I don't want to make you late. I'll take care of this. Sorry for hauling you along, Scraps. I'll still cover dinner tonight."

After a moment, Scrappy shook his head.

He started pulled on the gloves as the elevator opened. "It's okay."

Jeff grimaced. "It's not, Scraps. This is a thing between my friends. You don't--I don't wanna pull you into this, it might go bad. I got this, you should go."

"It's okay," Scrappy repeated, stepping out of the elevator. "Where's he at?"

A better person would've insisted that Scrappy leave. Or at least that he stay by the elevators, so he had plausible deniability.

But Jeff was just himself. After another hesitation, he headed for Dave's apartment.

He'd only been there once before, during last year's New Years' Eve party. But he still had the apartment number in his messages--although Jeff had barely remembered that text in time. He'd taken a screenshot before erasing Dave from his phone.

When they reached the door, Jeff double-checked the number against the screenshot and then knocked. A second later, someone yelled, " _What!_ "

. . . So much for hoping this would to go easy. Fine. Jeff had a contingency plan.

"You're parked in my spot, man," he replied, loud enough to be heard through the door but hopefully not so loud that anybody in the surrounding rooms would overhear. "Move your car or I'm gonna get the RA, I got shit to do."

Pretty soon, the door unlocked. "The hell are you talking abou--" Dave scowled as he opened it, before freezing when he recognized him.

"I'm here for Hannah's stuff," Jeff said with a mean smile.

"Fuck off," Dave spat, shoving the door shut.

Jeff pushed it back hard, managing to stop it from closing. Goddamn it. He didn't want to risk an ankle injury sticking his foot in the doorway, but of course this was going to be a pain in the ass. At least Dave lived in a single so Jeff didn't have to explain himself to a roommate.

"Makin' this harder than it has to--" Jeff said, as Dave leaned heavier on the door with "Get the _fuck_ out you cocksucking piece of--" and then Scrappy shoulder-checked the door open.

"Shit!" Dave said, knocked backward as the door slammed against the wall. Jeff stumbled into the room, startled.

He recovered fast, since there was no way they weren't making a scene by now. Jeff kicked the door shut and locked it, and told Scrappy, "Stay there. I'll be done soon."

"Get the _fuck out_ cunt, or I'm calling the cops!" Dave yelled, shoving away from the wall and following him as Jeff headed into the room.

"Good," Jeff replied. "I told Hannah to file a theft of property charge against you. Faster you call them, the faster your loser ass is in jail where you belong."

Dave cussed him out again and threatened to really do it--but he paused a couple seconds too long.

Jeff lifted the corner of his mouth in a sneer and turned around.

"Call the cops, Guidice," he said, starting at Dave, who backed up until he hit his desk. "Get your phone and do it. I got all afternoon to give a statement against you."

Dave clenched a fist and lifted it. "Motherfucker, think I won't--"

Jeff held up a hand to Scrappy when he saw the other man start forward in his peripheral vision. "I fuckin' dare you," Jeff said without taking his eyes off Dave. "The fuck you think you are compared to me?"

Jeff had video evidence of his appearance this morning, thanks to the interview he'd done before practice talking about how cool it was to be playing his first game against his hometown team. So he had proof that any potential injuries were from Dave and not a past game.

And at the moment he also had zero problems with hauling this loser into the financial drain and public exposure of an assault and battery lawsuit. Any outcome would end worse for Dave than Jeff. There were plenty of text messages and character witnesses who'd prove Jeff was in the right here.

Dave glared at him, teeth bared and hands shaking. Jeff held eye contact and kept his posture relaxed, hands casually in his pockets, and waited.

After a long, tense stretch of silence, Dave glanced away from him toward Scrappy, who was still standing in front of the locked door with his arms at his sides.

Scrappy was watching them in concern, but he still looked pretty intimidating to anybody who didn't know him better. Especially since he'd only recently gotten his stitches out from last month's bad game against L.A., so the scar on his face was still pretty ugly.

Jeff'd asked him to come along as backup for a reason. He definitely didn't want Scrappy to get involved in a fight; but even if somebody didn't know anything about his enforcer role on the ice, Dimitri Vovk wasn't a guy you looked at and thought _Ah yes, I'll fuck with him, that'll go great for me and end with no consequences whatsoever_.

Dave looked back at Jeff, jaw clenched, and finally pointed at the far corner of the room. "Get that bitch's shit and get the fuck out, faggot."

Jeff smiled more contemptuously and turned away.

Hannah's list was short: a coat, her backpack, some textbooks, and her laptop. Which was good, since they were all visibly in a pile in the corner; but also bad, since those were all valuable items and Dave had wrecked them.

"Fucking pathetic," Jeff said, pulling out his phone to take a picture of Hannah's sliced-up coat.

Dave spat out some more bullshit Jeff didn't bother listening to. He moved the coat and took another photo of all the pages torn out of the textbooks, another of the smashed laptop, and then a final one of the backpack and its cut straps. Hannah had said she didn't want to press charges or deal with this asshole ever again, but hell if Jeff wasn't going to collect evidence in case she changed her mind.

He was putting everything into the backpack when Scrappy said, "Shut your fucking mouth."

"Don't bother," Jeff called, wedging the last handful of pages into the bag and trying not to crunch the laptop any further. Maybe it was still salvageable? Probably not. But maybe they could recover the microchips or something? Jeff didn't know anything about computer guts. "Don't talk to him like he's a man. He's just fucking trash."

"Go to hell, cocksucker," Dave snarled.

"I say shut the fuck up," Scrappy told him, stepping away from the door.

"Don't," Jeff ordered.

He picked up the pieces of Hannah's coat and the backpack. He had to cradle it awkwardly since Dave had ripped the zippers and cut apart the handle as well as the straps, Christ what a loser. "We're done here."

Dave pointed at the door. "Get the fuck out."

"See you in court, Guidice," Jeff replied as he walked past. Scrappy unlocked the door and opened it.

They didn't run into anybody in the hallway. A woman got on the elevator with them a couple floors down, but she just looked briefly at the two guys in suits carrying an armful of trashed personal items, and then apparently decided she didn't care to know and went back to annotating the book she was reading.

It occurred to Jeff that he should be more grateful to have a high-level fortune charm.

This whole thing shouldn't have gone so well. Assuming they didn't get busted by campus security in the next ten minutes.

But as long as they cleared out fast, it'd probably be fine. And anyway, one look at Hannah's stuff was more than enough to damn Dave, so Jeff wasn't that worried. He couldn't be accused of causing a scene if he was just explaining himself to security, after all.

Ben wanted to go in and punch Dave in the face after he saw what he'd done, but Jeff managed to talk him down enough to get him back in his car and on the road to Hannah's dorm. Once Ben had peeled into the street--and after Jeff dropped his hands from the 'do you not have common sense, man' gesture he was making that Ben probably couldn't see through traffic--Jeff turned back to where Scrappy was still standing by his rental car.

"Hey," Jeff told him, "thanks a lot, Scraps. I mean it." He tried to smile, but it felt weird and obviously fake, since now that he was away from Dave it was getting harder not to think about how he'd acted like an incredibly threatening asshole in front of a teammate.

In front of a guy Jeff liked. Who he'd wanted to like him too, and think well of him.

So much for that now. One of these days Jeff was going to have to learn some goddamn restraint.

"Order as much lobster as you want at dinner, I owe you," he added lamely.

Scrappy just nodded and held out the gloves, which, yeah, alright, it wouldn't have been much of a joke even in better circumstances. Jeff took them with another "Thanks" and stuck them in his suit pocket.

"Make a u-turn and head north," Jeff told him. "If you go left at Dundas, then make another left at Spadina, that'll take you right to the expressway."

"Okay," Scrappy replied, frowning slightly. "You don't want ride to hotel?"

"Nah, you did enough," Jeff replied, shrugging casually. Hopefully casually. "I'll take the subway back."

"I can drive you," Scrappy replied.

"Nah, thanks," Jeff told him, shaking his head. "I don't want to make you late, Scraps. Thanks for all the help."

"...Canadian," Scrappy said, and Jeff reflexively went "Hey" because that was definitely not said as a compliment.

"You take subway. Okay," Scrappy said with a raised eyebrow. "Coach calls me three hours later. 'Why is Swoops mobbed in subway?' he asks. 'Polite Canadian didn't want ride to hotel,' I answer. Now I'm scratch five extra games and you are lost in Toronto." He pointed at the car. "I'm drive you to hotel. --Driving."

Jeff snorted a laugh into his fist. "I grew up here, Scraps. I'm not gonna get lost between here and the waterfront."

"Hockey fans recognize Vegas rookie in subway," Scrappy replied, unlocking the car. "Can't let Troy shame Toronto. Can't let him score on hometown team. They disappear you. You return tomorrow to hotel, after game. In blindfold."

"What the fuck," Jeff grinned. "Canada doesn't take hockey _that_ seriously, Scraps."

"Maple Leafs fans," Scrappy replied, with so much deadpan certainty that Jeff wasn't actually 100% sure he was joking this time. "Get in car, Swoops."

Jeff kept snickering as he headed around to the passenger side.  
  
  
He called Hannah while directing Scrappy back to their hotel.

"Fucking asshole," she said wearily, after Jeff warned her about the state her stuff was in and sent the pictures.

"You really oughta sue him," Jeff told her. "Don't just let him get away with this shit."

"I don't wanna deal with all that crap," she replied. "I appreciate the help. Really. But--"

"You can't just let--"

"Don't start with me, Jeff," Hannah said, harder. "It's my life and my fucking choice. I'm not gonna put up with anybody _else_ trying to dictate every fucking thing I can and can't do, got it? I'm **done** with that shit!"

Jeff exhaled hard and sunk back into the seat.

"...Okay," he agreed. "Yeah. Okay. I'm not trying to do that to you, Hannah. Just--if you change your mind, or he keeps being an asshole. Or anything. If you want help, just let me know, okay? I got your back."

He heard her make a quiet, tired noise; but when she replied it sounded like she was trying to smile. "Yeah. I know you do, Jeff. I appreciate it." She huffed out another breath. "I just want this over already."

"Okay," Jeff agreed. "--Shit, that was the turn."

Scrappy looked behind him at the streetlight, and then put on his right blinker.

"It's alright," Jeff told him. "Keep going and turn left at the next. We'll just loop back."

"At the next..." Scrappy said hesitantly, turning the blinker off.

"Turn left at the next street light," Jeff clarified.

"Okay."

"Sorry," Jeff told him, before looking back at the phone. "Sorry about that."

"It's fine," Hannah replied. "I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah," he nodded. "...You still coming to the game tomorrow?"

"Nnn," she replied. "I don't think--"

"I already resold his ticket," Jeff replied. "If that's what you're worried about. He's not getting into the box."

"Jesus," Hannah said, snorting quietly. "--Did you bother telling him that?"

Jeff shrugged shortly as Scrappy took a left. "He's dumb enough to try using it after this, that's his problem, not mine."

Hannah laughed lowly. "You're kind of an asshole yourself sometimes, you know that?"

"Yeah," Jeff agreed. "But he shouldn't've fucked with one of my friends. Serves him right."

She exhaled. "Lemme see how much my books are wrecked, but...yeah. I'll try to be there."

"Only if you feel like it," Jeff told her. "I'll see you at Christmas for sure, yeah?"

"Yep," she replied, audibly trying to smile again. "See you."

"Catch ya later," Jeff replied, before hanging up and doing a mental recalculation of where they probably were now.

Once they were back on the main road toward the arena and the hotel past it, Jeff noticed that Scrappy was fidgeting a lot with the wheel.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," Scrappy replied; but then he hesitated.

Jeff waited. Sometimes Scrappy was quiet because he didn't feel like speaking up, or he didn't see a reason to. But sometimes he was quiet because he was trying to sort out how to say what he was thinking. And if other people kept plowing forward talking to fill the silence, then most of the time Scrappy would just let it go and keep his thoughts to himself.

After Jeff started spending more time hanging out with Parse and Scrappy outside of the clubhouse, he'd started noticing that Parse would leave breaks in the conversation whenever he had a feeling that Scrappy was going to say something.

So Jeff had done the same until he'd begun to get a sense for when Scrappy was putting together what he wanted to say, as opposed to when he was letting the conversation go on around him because he didn't have anything he felt like adding.

They kept driving quietly for a while longer. But eventually, while they were crawling through the traffic underneath Union Station, Scrappy shifted his hands on the steering wheel once more and then finally said, "That guy, Guidice. He's a bad guy. ...Yeah?"

. . . And wasn't that a hell of a question.

Jeff rubbed his face.

The simple answer was 'Yes.' Dave had removed himself from Jeff's friend group by being an asshole.

The messy answer was that Jeff liked Hannah, so he'd made an effort to be friends with the guy she'd dated for over two years. He had a solid handful of good memories of times he'd hung out with Dave during then. Even if Jeff shrugged those off, still, reducing him to a one-note villain felt like it was disrespecting Hannah's choice in boyfriends. If Dave hadn't had good parts to him, she would've dumped him a long time ago.

There had to have been good things there, too. Nobody was just all good or bad.

Okay, well, sociopaths were basically all bad, but Jeff was pretty sure that wasn't relevant to this situation.

He scrubbed his face harder with both hands, and then dropped them as Scrappy drove out from under the bridge and back into the sunlight.

"...He did some shitty stuff to a friend of mine that I'm not going to forgive him for, unless she does first," Jeff answered, because that was the most he could reduce the messy answer down to. "And even then, that's a hard maybe."

Scrappy considered that as they turned toward the hotel, before eventually nodding. "Okay."

Jeff exhaled slowly through his teeth.

"...I'm sorry," he said when Scrappy pulled up next to the hotel, because he was running out of time to not be an utter asshole today. "I shouldn't have gotten you mixed up in all that.

"Thanks for all the help, I mean it," Jeff added. "But, yeah. If all that'd gone worse, a fight could've...anyway. I'm sorry, Scraps. I should've told you the truth sooner."

"It's okay," Scrappy said with a small shrug. "It make sense I go. I look scary."

And oh damn, wow, apparently 'pang of conscience' was a real feeling you could really have because Jeff felt like he'd just gotten knifed in the heart. Fuck.

"Fuck," he muttered, dragging a hand over his face again. "...Yeah. I asked you to come with me because I figured that'd...." Jeff dropped his hand and shifted around to face him. "I'm sorry. That was a shitty thing to do to you."

Scrappy shook his head. "It's okay."

"Man, _no_. Vovk, I intentionally asked you to come along because I knew you'd look threatening, and I knew I was being an asshole and I did it anyway," Jeff told him, sounding more aggravated than he'd intended because it was all aimed at himself. "That's not okay, that's fucked up. You didn't deserve that."

"Is not--" Scrappy started, before stopping and lapsing back into silence with a frustrated expression.

Jeff took a slow breath, and made himself keep his mouth shut and wait.

"...I asked you, 'Can I help?'" Scrappy said after a few moments. "When you tell me 'It can go bad,' I said 'Okay.' I understand things are weird, but I said 'Okay.' If...." He made another face and paused.

"If I'm there, and you guys don't fight because I'm there, good," Scrappy said. "Okay?

"If I stop a fight before it happen, because I'm in right spot and I look scary, good. I want to...." He made a frustrated gesture. "The word, where thing don't happen."

"Prevent?" Jeff guessed.

Scrappy went with it. "I want to prevent a fight. If I'm there and I prevent a fight, good. Okay?" he said. "I don't want you to fight bad friend."

"That's...." Jeff rubbed his eyes. "I get it, Scrappy. I promise. But like--that's fine in games. But asking you to do that in real life, that's fucked up."

"We're friends," Scrappy replied, like that didn't make Jeff manipulating him _worse_ and holy shit Jeff didn't know he could feel like any more of a bastard but nope, cool, got there. Cool cool cool.

"Troy," Scrappy said seriously.

Jeff made himself quit hiding, and dropped his hand and looked at him.

"I will feel bad if you get hurt in a fight," Scrappy said. "If you want my help and I prevent a fight, it's okay. Yeah? I said it's okay."

Jeff knew full well that it wasn't okay; but at the same time, it wasn't Scrappy's job to make him feel better about the shitty, disrespectful choice he'd made. It was Jeff's responsibility to never do it to him again.

So he made himself take a breath, and nod. "Okay.

"Thank you," Jeff told him, pushing his bangs back. "I really mean it. Thanks a lot, Scraps. For today, all of this."

Scrappy nodded.

Jeff was trying to figure out what else to say that didn't feel incredibly lame and/or stupid when there was a tap on the passenger window. He looked over his shoulder and saw a valet standing outside.

"Ah, shit," Jeff said as he realized they'd been idling by the curb for--definitely longer than they were probably supposed to. He opened the door and looked back at Scrappy. "Thanks for the ride. I'll, uh--see you tonight, yeah?"

"Yeah," Scrappy agreed.

Jeff got out and apologized to the valet for the inconvenience as Scrappy eased back into traffic. And then he headed into the hotel, mostly to look natural but also because it was pushing 1:30 in the afternoon and he still hadn't eaten lunch.

\--Neither had Scrappy. Dammit. Jeff really, really owed him.

*

Later, while he was scarfing a salad in his room, Jeff belatedly realized that maybe he should be concerned about how many times Dave had called him gay in front of Scrappy.

. . . Nah. Probably not. Dave had sounded like any other douche who'd gotten mad and spat a bunch of uncreative bullshit.

Scrappy had started getting pissed off because Dave'd kept running his mouth after Jeff had tuned him out. But there wasn't any real reason to assume Scrappy would think that anything Dave said was true.

*

Scrappy didn't actually order steak **and** lobster, or at least he didn't order steak and like a dozen oysters or something since the restaurant team dinner was at didn't have lobster.

What he did was worse: he told Parse that Jeff was buying both of their dinners, and then refused to tell Parse why, which consigned Jeff to the hell of being hassled endlessly by Parse until either Parse got bored or the heat death of the universe, whichever came first and it probably wouldn't be the heat death.

"I'm never underestimating you again," Jeff grumbled at Scrappy, while the guys were all walking back to the hotel.

Scrappy gave him that sly half-grin and patted Jeff on the back. "Smartest rookie."

"Hey," Parse said on Scrappy's other side.

Scrappy grinned a little wider and rested an arm on Parse's shoulder. "You started fight with Thornton. Dumbest rookie ever in Aces."

"Still a record," Parse shrugged, as Jeff laughed.

*

By the start of December, the coach was consistently assigning Jeff to second line center.

He didn't have consistent lineys at first. Jeff's wingers kept varying between top-six guys who were starting to slump and bottom-six guys currently on a hot streak; but by the end of December, Scrappy was regularly put on his left wing.

It was frustrating, because Scrappy was on the slower side of the roster. It affected Jeff's plays, forcing him to mentally revise passes and reestimate how long he had to hang onto the puck--even when he was getting driven toward the boards--since he kept having to wait for Scrappy to catch up if their right wing or a d-man wasn't available. It forced Jeff to continually adjust to a new left wing on the fly, whenever Scrappy ended up in the penalty box after yet another fight.

By the start of January, Jeff went through a five-game goalless slump.

Which triply sucked, because he knew his rookie year was going to be one of his best ones. Other teams didn't have enough data on him yet to do a great job of shutting him down, like they would next year.

But there wasn't much to do about it. An assistant coaches had explained why Jeff's line was the way it now was: this was the latest step in the coaching staff's season-long effort to get Scrappy to transition away from his enforcer role into an agitator one.

On the outside, that sounded simple. Both roles' core purpose was to protect teammates on the ice, so it should've been an easy transition for Scrappy to make.

Except that enforcers didn't have to skate fast to do their job, but an agitator did. An agitator's role was a lot more complex.

Scrappy was still expected to hit hard and start fights to discourage the other team from pulling dirty moves and to lift the team's energy if they were fading during a game. But now the coaches wanted him to be faster and occasionally score goals at the same time.

Except nobody had told Scrappy that last summer, when he was conditioning. So Scrappy had spent the first half of the season trying to reverse his conditioning's focus on building muscle and strength, while also adjusting to a new diet meant to shave down his weight some, on top of learning an entirely different play style while doing speed drill skates relentlessly in his free time.

The fact that Scrappy had managed to do all that as well as he had in just four months was underrated. He still needed to get better, especially as the playoff rankings got tighter and tighter, but Jeff knew Scrappy was working his ass off to meet his new expectations.

That, combined with the fact that he just plain liked Scrappy, meant that Jeff had more patience for the other man's rocky learning curve than other lineys had. Which was exactly why the coaches were putting Scrappy on Jeff's line so much now.

Jeff was coming in early before practice lately to work on his shooting and to join Parse and Scrappy in speed drills. He knew the coaches were aware of it.

Jeff was also pretty sure that the coaches considered him a stepping stone in Scrappy's progress. They wanted a tough guy out on the ice alongside Parse, and in unofficial practices there was no denying Parse and Scrappy had good chemistry.

But Scrappy wasn't fast enough at his current level to keep up with Parse. The coaches weren't going to hamstring Parse's playmaking and points accrual by putting him together with Scrappy until Scraps got better.

It wasn't hard to see that if Scrappy couldn't overhaul his whole play style by next season's training camp, he probably wouldn't be on the Aces any longer.

Scrappy was buying himself time and avoiding excessive scratches with all his hard work, but that wasn't going to last forever. There were other tough guys in the Aces' farm team or who were coming up for free agency around the league that could take his place. This was a business; and the playoffs were coming.

It sucked, a _lot_ , to be slammed with a goalless stretch in the middle of his rookie year. It sucked worse to know that his skid was only half his fault at most.

He could always be playing better, sure. And if he were good enough, he'd find a way around his current stumbling block and start scoring again.

But at the same time, Jeff's stumbling block was that he was getting dragged down hard by one of his wingers.

Even liking Scrappy, and knowing it wasn't the other man's fault that they'd been put in this position, and watching Scrappy do everything he could to improve as fast as possible, it still got harder for Jeff to shake off his frustration every time he was sent a bad pass or couldn't get into place in time to take a shot at the goal.

*

By mid-March, the Aces were mathematically eliminated from the playoffs.

They could still theoretically make it in, if they won every single game before the end of the season and if every other team in the western conference lost their own, even somehow the teams who were playing against another western team. But really at this point, the guys were just playing for pride.  
  
  
It never felt good to close out a season knowing the exact day you were going home. But it felt worse knowing that Scrappy blamed too much of it on himself.

Jeff hadn't realized how bad it was. He knew Scrappy was frustrated during January and February, but Scraps usually stayed level emotionally in the dressing room during and after games. He kept getting visibly agitated during their speed drills whenever he lagged behind Parse and Jeff, but he didn't get verbally pissed off or otherwise talk about it. He just internalized everything.

Which in hindsight was a lot worse than if Jeff and Scrappy had just gotten into a frustration-fueled argument and cleared the air, and then worked past that. But Jeff really hadn't realized just how bad it was.

Not until the last game of April. After their line back from came from their final shift against Edmonton, down by two goals with only a couple minutes left, Scrappy broke his stick over his knee.

That seemed like a normal adrenaline response under the circumstances. Jeff ignored it and slid down the bench.

But then Scrappy broke two more sticks, one after another, until the equipment manager shifted in front of the stick rack.

Scrappy sat down on the bench after that, shoulders slumped and fists clenched as he watched the last of the game. The d-man next to him thumped him on the thigh.  
  
  
When the game was done and lost, Parse slung his arm over Scrappy's shoulders as they trudged down the hall to the dressing room.

Jeff tried to talk to him afterward. But as soon as the head coach wrapped up his post-game breakdown, Scrappy left the dressing room to avoid the media.

He was still doing a cool-down on the bikes by the time Jeff finished his interview and came into the exercise room. But when he went over, Scrappy just kept his head down and his eyes on the bike's screen, giving short answers, clearly unwilling to talk. So Jeff reluctantly left him alone.

*

The next morning, Scrappy came into the kitchen while Jeff was making a new pot of coffee and viciously cussing out whoever'd drunk up the previous one without making more. Jeff was going to track that asshole down one of these days.

"Hey Scraps," he said distractedly as Scrappy came over, since he was busy stirring the hot water into the grounds so that everything would get mixed properly. If Jeff was stuck making coffee instead of being able to guzzle a cup as soon as he got in the door because somebody else was a lazy jackass, then dammit he was at least gonna make it taste better. "Give me a couple minutes and it'll be ready."

"Okay," Scrappy said.

He kept standing there silently afterward, instead of moving away to get a mug or to grab some breakfast, which was a little odd.

But he'd learned to give Scrappy time when the man was settling on his words. So Jeff just kept stirring and waited.

A few moments later, Scrappy said quietly, "I'm sorry for yesterday."

"Huh?" Jeff replied, resting the spoon down in the grounds and turning to focus on him. "Why?"

Scrappy looked down past Jeff. "We lost."

Jeff shrugged. "Yeah, but it doesn't really matter anymore, does it?" he said. "We just gotta do what we can for the rest of the year, and then focus on comin' back better next season."

"Yeah, but..." Scrappy said, rubbing his forearm. He still wasn't meeting Jeff's eyes. "It was Edmonton. You like beating them."

"--Ah," Jeff said, because several things from last night and right now were starting to make sense.

He bopped Scrappy lightly in the shoulder. "Scraps, don't worry about it. I like beating them the same as I like winning against any team," he reassured. "The Oilers don't mean anything to me. They drafted me, I argued with their GM, now I'm here in Vegas. I don't even recognize half the guys there now."

Scrappy still looked a little uncertain; but only a little, and he was looking at Jeff again, which was a big improvement over thirty seconds ago.

Jeff promised him, "Losing to them doesn't mean anything to me. 'Cept it sucks we didn't get those two points. But don't beat yourself up over it, eh? Let's focus on the next game."

Scrappy took a slow breath, and then nodded. "...Okay."

Jeff clapped him on the shoulder. "Good.

"I'm gonna get breakfast," he added, fishing the spoon out of the grounds and cupping a hand under it so he wouldn't drip on the linoleum as he carried it to the trashcan.

"Okay," Scrappy agreed, sounding better as he headed for the coffee mug cabinet.

*

During that year's exit interview, Jeff was unwisely blunt about how he felt about the season.

"Of course I'm pissed off at how bad our line played," he replied to the GM. Then he caught himself, and exhaled through his teeth.

"But you know, I'm the one at center," Jeff continued. "If I didn't dig deep enough to make up for our weaknesses, that's on me."

"'Weaknesses,'" Greg repeated, with his hands folded in front of his face.

Jeff made a 'don't bullshit me' gesture before catching himself again and dropping his hands.

"We didn't play like we could've," he said after a moment, trying to choose his words carefully. "...Playing with Scraps was harder than it needed to be.

"But I mean, I'm not mad at him for it," Jeff added. "I _know_ how hard he worked this season. If somebody'd just told him last summer that he needed to play a new role, he would've come in ready for it."

Jeff slumped deeper in his chair and told himself not to whine about the coaching staff. That would just make him look bad, and it wouldn't fix anything. "I get it, Greg. I'm not disagreeing with Dan's choice," he said. "If we become a speed-focused team built around guys like Parse, then we're gonna have a big advantage over slower teams.

"But the last months didn't need to be that hard, you know?" Jeff told him. "If that decision had been made sooner, and Scraps'd been told before camp, we could've played a lot better out there."

Jeff blew out a breath. "That's how I felt, anyway. It was frustrating."

"Mm," Greg said, hands still folded in front of his face to conceal part of it. "I agree.

"All right," the older man added, before Jeff could fully process just what _that_ meant. Greg dropped his hands and sat back in his chair. "Was there anything else you wanted to say?"

Jeff thought it over, but he'd pretty much laid everything out. "Nah. That's it."

"Okay," Greg said, standing and holding out a hand. Jeff pushed out of his chair and shook it. "Thank you for the season, Jeff. I'll talk to you again this summer."

"All right," he agreed.

"Before I forget," Greg added, letting go. Jeff dropped his hand. "I'm going to be in touch with your agent about your contract extension, but I wanted to let you know in advance that the first offer we make this July is going to be low-balling you."

". . . Ah," Jeff replied, because he wasn't sure what else to say to that.

"I wanted to warn you, to let you know it's not an insult," Greg told him. "You've been a valuable, productive member of this organization since you came in. I fully expect that by the end of negotiations, your salary will be higher than the initial offer, without any need for arbitration."

Willpower alone kept Jeff from reacting to that subtle threat.

Greg lifted his shoulders in a 'there's just not much I can do' gesture meant to elicit sympathy. "But I have other contracts to factor in, too. And new players that we need to bring in."

Jeff nodded. It wasn't like the man was lying to him; Parse's initial contract was up for extension in July too, and there was no way that wouldn't eat a huge hole in the Las Vegas Hockey Club's salary budget. "Yeah."

"It isn't meant to insult your skills, or devalue you," Greg reiterated. "I want you to be a part of the Aces for a long time. But I also have to spend wisely, to make sure we **have** that future."

"Of course," Jeff agreed amicably. "Yeah. That makes plenty of sense. I don't really pay attention to all the contract stuff," and wow, that was the smoothest lie he'd ever told in his life, don't think about that right now Troy or you'll fuck it up, "but I'll let you and Lucas work all that out. Thanks for letting me know."

Greg nodded. "Thank you for your time, Jeff."

"Sure thing."  
  
  
He called his agent as soon as he was in the parking lot.

*

Parse was reassigned from an alternate to the Aces' captain in early June, surprising absolutely nobody except maybe Parse himself, for reasons Jeff still didn't fully understand. Twenty was pretty young for a captain, sure, but it was hardly unprecedented.

*

Jeff texted Parse at the end of June to see if he wanted to hang out in Toronto during the long fourth of July weekend. Parse wrote back that he was busy with a couple birthday parties all weekend, and invited Jeff down to New York for the Saturday one.

Jeff debated the wisdom of saying yes, but ultimately he couldn't make himself turn it down.

He called Parse once he arrived at the address Parse had given him, since he must've written it down wrong. Jeff was parked in the driveway of a super tiny house.

But then Parse came out the front door and directed him to park on the grass by a detached one-car garage. So, alright. Jeff supposed the rental market in this town wasn't too big.

"This the best you could get?" he asked, tossing his bag into a bedroom with two air mattresses and a sleeping bag inside.

"Piss off," Parse replied, with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You can always sleep in the basement if you want more room."

Jeff snorted and shrugged it off. "Nah. You sure it's okay to park on the grass?" he added. "Will the owner get upset?"

Parse shook his head. "It's fine, this place's mine," he replied, and hold on what.

Yeah, sure, Parse was on a rookie contract the same as Jeff, but he could still afford better than **this**.

"I bought my parents a new place, so I'm crashing here until it's sold," Parse added, and ah, okay, apparently Jeff had just...insulted his childhood home? Good job, Troy.

"Gotcha," Jeff replied. ". . . Soooo, any chance I can extract my foot from my mouth after that previous statement, or...?"

"Prolly not," Parse answered with an amused half-smile. "Past performance says you ain't that flexible."

And hold on. Hold on, what the hell kind of comment was _that?_ How was Jeff supposed to chirp back at that??

\--He was reading too much into it. Obviously. Parse had made a lame joke below his usual standards, and now he'd gotten away with it because he'd headed out of the room while Jeff was too busy having a mental car crash to drag him for the piss-poor chirp.

"What d'ya want to drink?" Parse called.

"Whatcha got?" Jeff replied, making himself shake off those thoughts as he headed for the kitchen.

He knew better than to come here; and yet he just kept on making one dumb choice after another when it came to Parse. At some point, Jeff was going to have to own that this was a pattern he was actively refusing to break despite his better judgment.

Oh well. It'd be better once the rest of the guests showed up.

"Miller Lite," Parse replied, opening the fridge. "And water, juice, and coke for the designated drivers."

"What else?"

"A different can of Miller Lite," Parse replied dryly.

Jeff gave him a disbelieving look. Parse just smirked a little and held a can out over the refrigerator door.

"I'm driving back home right now if you try to hand that to me," Jeff told him.

Parse laughed out loud. "Nailed it," he grinned, putting the can back and whacking the door shut. "I didn't bother hitting up the liquor store until you got here. C'mon, we'll go get your fancy craft beer, Swoops."

"It's not gonna work if you're trying to insult me for having decent taste," Jeff told him, following Parse to the front door. Parse just snorted mock-derisively.  
  
  
The store was a few minutes from Parse's house, which Jeff _guessed_ was an advantage of living in a small town. He wandered through it while Parse was on the phone with somebody about wine brands, but he couldn't find the beer section. Just hard liquor and wine.

After Parse was off the phone and armed with a couple bottles of white wine, Jeff asked, "Is there another room?"

"Nope," Parse answered, heading over to the liquor shelves.

Jeff looked around the store again, and then eyed Parse.

Parse lifted the corner of his mouth. "I said we're goin' to the 'liquor' store, man, not the beer store."

"Are you kidding me," Jeff said.

Parse gave him a side-long look, visibly smirking now. "It's only been two months, Swoops. You really already forgot how to deal with me?"

Jeff pinched the bridge of his nose and reminded himself once again that coming here had been a bad idea, for his libido and also possibly his mental health.

Parse just shook his head and pulled a bottle of whiskey off the shelf. "Relax, I'm yankin' your chain. We'll get it after this."

Jeff shook his head. "How **did** I forget what a little shit you are?"

"Must not've chirped you enough for it to take," Parse replied without missing a beat. "I'll work harder next year. Go get several packs of that fancy tonic, wouldja?"

Jeff scrubbed Parse's hair hard enough to wreck his curls and shifted away when Parse juggled the bottles to elbow him in the side. And then he went to go find a staff member to help him figure out what the 'fancy tonic' was because hell if he was going to give Parse another opening.  
  
  
The young woman at the register made a hesitant face when they put everything down. "Kent, man...."

"Troy here's twenty-two," Parse replied, pointing a thumb at Jeff. "He's got it."

That was news to Jeff.

\--Right, the drinking age in the U.S. was twenty-one. Which Parse wasn't for two more days.

...Meaning he'd hauled Jeff along on this trip as his cover for getting liquor, which in hindsight Jeff couldn't even manage to fake being surprised about.

It wouldn't have killed the guy to _tell_ Jeff why he was doing it--Jeff wouldn't have said no--but then again, communication wasn't exactly Parse's MO.

"Ah," she said, relaxing. "Okay."

"Yeah, I should've asked: is it okay if the baby _touches_ the alcohol, or should he just be carrying the tonic?" Jeff asked, grinning.

"Weak," Parse drawled. "Can we get some limes too, Josie?"

"How many?"

Parse took a quick glance at the array of four-packs of tonic water and said, "Sixteen."

Josie looked behind her at the low wooden crates holding a bunch of limes and lemons. "I don't think I've got that many...."

"Eh, fill out the rest with lemons," Parse shrugged. "Ain't like _I'm_ drinking any of these, right?"

Josie snorted and started filling a paper bag with fruit as Jeff rifled through his wallet for his U.S.-based credit card, so he wouldn't get stuck with conversion fees.  
  
  
Once they had everything in the trunk and Parse had given him a couple hundred in twenties to cover most of the cost, Parse drove them to a closed restaurant by a hotel and then led Jeff around to the back and knocked on the service door. When a guy opened it a little later, he and Parse said "Hey" and fist-bumped.

"I got a Canadian here who's too good for red-blooded American beers," Parse told the guy, nodding at Jeff. "Can I get some Switchbacks?"

Jeff rolled his eyes as the guy leaned back to look into the kitchen briefly. "Yeah, just don't let Moll see you takin' it to the car."

"What d'you take me for, a hack?" Parse grinned.

The guy snerked. "What'dja want?"

"Ring up a six-pack of whatever you got," Parse told him, before slapping Jeff on the back. "Swoops here'll pay ya."

Jeff gave him a look. "I'd say 'Somebody's gotta be able to do it legally,' but we're literally making a back alley deal here, Parse."

"Thanks, Derek," Parse told the other guy without even acknowledging him. "I'll go get the car."

"You can't keep hazing me when I'm not a rookie anymore!" Jeff called as Parse walked away. Parse gave him a thumbs up over his shoulder.

Jeff sighed and looked back at Derek, who was snickering into his fist. "Six-pack of each."

"Sure thing," he replied. "Gimme a few."  
  
  
By the time the guy came back with four six-packs and a price, Parse had pulled around and opened the trunk. Jeff gave Derek his credit card and helped Parse load them up, even though he knew he oughta make Parse do it himself for revenge. But he wanted to know what he'd bought.

"They're from Vermont or something," Parse told him, as Jeff was eying the seasonal pils. "They're not bad."

"You are lousy at endorsements," Jeff told him, making Parse snort as Derek opened the door again.

"You coming over after you get off?" Parse asked him, as Jeff was struggling to sign the receipt legibly using his thigh as a flat surface.

"I dunno," Derek said disappointedly. "Susan called in sick, so I'm stuck closing. I probably won't get out 'til ten."

Parse shrugged. "Come on around anyway, we'll still be up. I'll leave the door unlocked," and Jeff accidentally dug the pen through the paper and straight into his jeans, ow.

Parse and Derek looked over as he cussed under his breath.

And then Parse shook his head and shrugged at Derek. "Torontonian. You're not gonna get ax-murdered overnight, Swoops," Parse added to him.

" _I'm not the weird one_ ," Jeff told him exasperatedly. "I've seen horror movies, I know better than to trust this 'idyllic small town' front. Next thing, fuckin' Jason's coming outta that woods behind your house."

"'Woods,'" Parse repeated in disbelief, as Derek laughed.

As Jeff was fixing his signature, Parse told Derek, "Come by whenever. I need to get you those jerseys for the church auction, anyway."

"'Jersey **s** '?" Derek repeated.

"Yeah," Parse agreed. "One of Swoops's got messed up by the manufacturer, so they tossed it in with the other charity stuff. As long as it's framed so you can't see the front, it'll be fine."

"Hey, thanks man," Derek told him sincerely.

"Sure, no problem," Jeff smiled, despite the fact that he had no idea what was being referenced. But when in doubt, he just assumed it was Parse getting one over on him again.

Once they were back on the road, Jeff eyed him. "You know, it'd be a lot easier to 'yes, and' you if I knew what you were talking about in the first place."

"Didn't slow you down though, did it?" Parse grinned, one arm resting casually on the windowsill as he drove them home.

"Did you build up two months' worth of chirps and now it's crashing down all at once?" Jeff grumbled.

"Good thing you came down, huh?" Parse replied. "I dunno if you coulda survived waiting until September."

Jeff braced his elbow against the window and rubbed his face with his hand.

Parse shook his head, still smiling. "You seriously make this way too easy, man."  
  
  
There really was one of Jeff's jerseys folded in the spare bedroom closet, along with a couple of Parse's and some other miscellaneous signed fan tchotchkes. Jeff looked over at Parse with a raised eyebrow.

Parse just shrugged and handed him a sharpie. "I asked admin if there was any front-damaged merch they were going to send back. Margie gave me this."

Jeff wasn't super keen on autographing anything that was apparently going to be used to raise money for a church, but that wasn't a good enough reason to say no. "You could've just asked me to bring one," he replied, taking the jersey out to the kitchen table to sign it.

Parse shrugged again as he followed. "Ain't your job to drop money for my community. Thanks for doin' this."

"Sure, no problem," Jeff answered, biting the cap off the sharpie.  
  
  
Parse's pre-birthday party was as surprisingly small as his house.

While they were setting up the grill, Parse had mentioned that he was celebrating his actual birthday with his family on the fourth, but it'd been easier to get his friends together the weekend beforehand. So the people here tonight were mostly guys he knew from Juniors, their girlfriends, a few people from his hometown, and also one guy from Parse's conditioning camp who also happened to be a 2011 Stanley Cup champion because apparently that's just how Calder winners rolled when writing up a guest list.

"I can't believe you invited him," Jeff told Parse, eyebrow raised as he took another sip of beer.

As he'd expected, Parse calling them 'not bad' meant they were good, but god forbid Parse express unmitigated approval of literally anything. If he did, it'd probably be proof that _he_ was some kind of replicant that'd come out of the damn-well-looked-like-woods-to-Jeff behind them.

Parse snorted. "You kidding? After they won, I told him to fuck off, he was un-invited," he replied. "That's why I knew he'd bother to show up."

Jeff laughed into his glass. Parse just shrugged casually before looking over at the back porch and calling, "Nineteen-year-olds can't drink in America!"

"Piss off, Parse!" Segs called back, pulling a can out of the cooler.

Parse snickered and flipped another burger on the grill.

Jeff spotted a couple of Parse's Juniors teammates heading over in the corner of his vision. He slapped him on the back before drifting away, so he didn't wind up monopolizing all of Parse's time.  
  
  
The party started petering out a couple hours after it got dark, as people hit the road or went back to their own houses. Only Jeff and a few other folks stayed over.

*

Jeff dragged himself out of bed way too early the next morning despite his hangover, half because he could smell bacon cooking and half because the guy in the sleeping bag snored like there oughta be one of those sawing logs over his head.

Somebody was already in the bathroom, so Jeff reversed course to the kitchen where Parse was scrambling eggs and frying up bacon while the Quebecois guy--Michel? yeah--drank cranberry juice at the table.

"Why do you two look so sober," Jeff grumbled, getting a glass of water at the sink.

"Lightweight," Michel replied. Jeff scowled and downed the water before getting another glass.

"The trick is to underpour your own drinks," Parse said cheerfully, looking at Jeff over his shoulder. "And to not be so fucking bad at games, Swoops. Learn when to lose."

" _What_ ," Jeff demanded.

Michel shook his head. "I can't believe you're still pulling that."

"I can't believe it never stops working," Parse replied as he moved the eggs off the burner. "Sucker born every minute."

" **You** suck," Jeff retorted.

Parse just snorted and dumped a spatulaful of eggs onto a plate, before scooping a few strips of bacon onto it as well. "Weak," he told Jeff, holding out the plate. "Here, soak up the booze. Bread's over there, forks in that drawer."

"Soak your _head_ ," Jeff muttered brilliantly as he took it and went to get a fork, earning him another scoff from Parse and a mocking raised eyebrow from Michel.

"Scraps says 'Hey,'" Parse added.

"Yeah?" Jeff replied. "--Wait, he still in Ukraine?"

"Yeah, won't be back until conditioning."

"Ah," Jeff said, trying to undo the excessively complicated knot somebody had tied the bread sleeve into. This was just obnoxious. "That's a shame. Woulda been fun to have him here."

"Yeah," Parse agreed, before shrugging. "Whatcha you gonna do?"

Jeff nodded as he wrested the knot loose. It really was a shame; he didn't have a problem meeting new people, but it still would've been nice to have somebody else around yesterday who he knew.

Jeff and Scrappy had texted each other a few times since Scraps had flown back to Ukraine, but the time difference made it hard to hold a real conversation. Jeff was starting to miss the guy, even though he knew Scrappy would be back in North America in another month or so.

The woman in the bathroom--Allie?--came out a little later, looking only slightly less hungover than Jeff felt, which was vindicating in a schadenfreude-y way since she was the one who'd been making the surprisingly good gin and tonics yesterday that Jeff was now regretting wholeheartedly. Beer never would've betrayed him like this.

"Made you a hair of the dog," Michel told her, nodding behind him at the fridge.

"I love you more than anyone in the world," Allie replied, heading for it as Michel chuckled.

Parse shook his head with a smile and held out another plate of eggs and bacon. "Line your stomach first."

"Ugh," Allie grumbled, shifting the cup to her other hand and taking the plate. "Thanks. _How_ aren't you hung over? I never saw you without a drink. You didn't win **that** many rounds."

"Good Scottish blood," Parse said straight-faced as she sat down on Michel's lap. "You're all lightweights."

"He cheats," Michel replied, leaning back in the chair and wrapping an arm around her waist. "I warned you not to play Brotherhood free-for-all against him."

"He literally just said he cuts his drinks," Jeff added, because he'd be goddamned if he didn't drag Parse about that one for the rest of his life.

Parse just shrugged and brought his plate to the table to join the rest of them. "It's not cheating if you're not caught."

"Kent Parson's motto for playing hockey," Michel replied, and Parse went "Hey."

"I watched you crash other goalies' nets for three years, you shit," Michel said dryly. "You're a menace."

"Only a couple times," Parse replied. Michel arched an eyebrow. "...Memorial Cup run doesn't count."

Allie snorted as Michel shifted her around on his lap enough to hold up a middle finger, eyebrow still raised. Jeff laughed and then immediately winced when his head throbbed worse.  
  
  
Michel and Allie headed back up to Napierville after breakfast. Derek had been sleeping on the couch, but when Parse woke him at ten and told him the time, he took off for work so fast that Jeff didn't manage to tell him bye.

Jonah, the guy from who'd driven over from Detroit, was still sleeping it off in the spare bedroom. But Parse didn't seem particularly bothered by that.

It spared Jeff from being the last straggler, at least. Ever since breakfast he'd been manufacturing an excuse to avoid leaving by repeatedly challenging Parse at Assassins Creed: Brotherhood.

Challenging and losing. Jeff kept hanging around despite his better judgement mostly because he really _had_ forgotten how easy it was to fall back into conversation--a.k.a. losing an escalating chirp war--with Parse, and how it felt good to hang out with him. Even if his lingering hangover muted his ability to really enjoy it.

But he also kept hanging around because he was not leaving this goddamned town until he'd won at least **one** game.

"I can break out the Wii and we can play Mario Kart," Parse said, after he'd assassinated his own target before Jeff yet _again_. "You might be able to button-mash your way to success there. Freak accidents happen."

"Don't you patronize me," Jeff growled, dropping the controller to flex his hands. "I'm gonna get you soon."

"I mean, I could treat you like **real** competition, but you ain't proven yourself worthy of that," Parse smiled, which was the point Jeff lost patience and headlocked him.

After he'd wrestled Parse down to the carpet and started trying to noogie him as Parse fought back, it occurred to Jeff in hindsight that Parse was not the kind of guy who would ever tap out. Even when it was blatantly obvious that Jeff had the strength to keep him pinned down for as long as he wanted, unless Parse got dirty about fighting loose.

Which meant that Jeff was now in a hell of his own making, because he was pretty freaking tired of Parse getting the better of him and he really didn't want to give the guy another win. But if he didn't, he was basically stuck sitting on Parse's back to hold him down, which didn't sound bad except for all the ways that it was.

It occurred to Jeff in further hindsight that he was just torturing himself and he needed to go home already before he did something stupid. Stupider.

He was saved from his self-made catch-22 when Jonah finally came out of the spare bedroom and looked into the living room, yawning.

"Got too cocky again, huh?" he asked, before heading down the hall to the bathroom. Parse snickered.

Jeff let him go and shoved himself back up onto the couch with several grumbled and probably incoherent insults. Parse just got to his feet and dusted himself off with an 'I knew you'd break first' expression, and Jeff swore to god one of these days--

\--He wasn't going to do anything about it. Except maybe jerk his dick raw fantasizing. That was starting to feel possible.

Jeff exhaled silently as he picked up his controller, and reminded himself yet again that coming here had been a very bad idea. Not just for his libido and mental health, but maybe his physical one as well. It couldn't be good to keep having to blue-ball yourself to stay professional.

Oh well. Jeff supposed he was going to find out eventually if he didn't get his dumb ass past this crush.  
  
  
Jonah left soon after frying up one of the uncooked hamburgers and eating it while chirping Jeff and Parse both during another round of Brotherhood. Which meant Jeff needed to stop dragging his heels and go, too.

"All right, I quit," Jeff said, dropping his controller after another loss and standing up to stretch. "I'm gonna head home."

"You sure?" Parse asked, which was nowhere near the chirp Jeff had been expecting. "You can crash here another night."

"Nah," Jeff said reflexively, since he knew better than to be a guest who overstayed his welcome. "Thanks, though."

"For real," Parse said, more seriously. Jeff blinked and shifted around to look at him.

Parse shrugged as he set his controller aside to rub his hands, focusing on that instead of looking at Jeff. "You don't usually drink like yesterday, yeah? You shouldn't hit the road until you're back to normal."

Jeff was pretty sure literally every other person who'd left Parse's house today was either as or more hungover than he was, especially now that his own headache had worn off. Maybe not Michel, but definitely all the rest.

Eh, the rest of them weren't Parse's teammates. It made sense for Parse to be more worried about Jeff's optics than theirs; he'd been trying hard the past year to live up to his new leadership role.

"It's fine," Jeff reassured him. "I feel fine now. Thanks, though."

Parse made a brief frustrated face, like he wanted to keep arguing; but then he blanked it away and nodded, pushing himself up from the couch. "Alright."

...Jeff had definitely seen that.

During the past season, Jeff had started to occasionally wonder if he kept telling himself he was reading too much into some of the things Parse did or said to him because he was actually reading them _right_.

He always wound up reminding himself that no, he was definitely reading too much into them and just starting to get pathetically desperate about wishing otherwise.

Since joining the Aces, the majority of Jeff's life now existed in a deeply homosocial world. It got his signals crossed sometimes. But he knew better than to assume he wasn't the only non-straight guy in the dressing room, and he _definitely_ knew better than to assume the guy he was crushing on just conveniently happened to be bi or gay too.

But he'd definitely just seen Parse look like it bothered him that Jeff was rejecting his offer.

. . . Jeff had already made so many bad choices basically right since he'd first started hanging out with Parse that hell, what was one more.

"I don't wanna be in your way," Jeff told him, "I know you've got other stuff planned. But, uh, yeah. If it won't be a bother, sure. It'd be great to stay another night."

"Yeesh," Parse said, stretching his arms. "'If it won't be a bother.' Think you could've hedged that any more, Swoops?"

"Who the fuck is talking to me right now," Jeff said flatly. "Mr. Equivocating himself. _You're_ really tryin' to give me shit about **that**?"

Parse just snorted and dropped his arms. "You wanna play another round?"

"Do I wanna give you yet another opportunity to hand me my ass and chirp me about it," Jeff replied, making Parse smirk. "Pass.

"What else'd you have planned today?" he added.

Parse shrugged again, more casually, and stood up before sliding his hands into his pockets. "I was gonna take the burgers over to my parents and do my workout," he replied. "Nothing after that."

"Uuuuu _uuuuuugh_ ," Jeff said, dropping his head, because he knew he needed to work out--especially since he'd done a short version yesterday so he could get on the road early to drive down to Parse's town--but it sounded like the absolute worst right now. "Okay."

Parse shook his head with a half-smile as he started for the kitchen. "Real great example for an alt to be setting, Swoops."

"Don't fuckin' curse me," Jeff grumbled, following him.

Parse paused and looked over his shoulder at him, frowning.

Jeff raised an eyebrow and pushed him in the back to get him moving again. "What?"

"Hasn't Greg talked to you yet?" he asked.

Jeff stared at him, narrowing his eyes. ". . . Don't you _dare_ threaten me like that."

Parse lifted both eyebrows, and then dropped them and shrugged. "You're weird," he replied. "Can you get the cooler?"

Jeff kept giving him the stink-eye as he went to grab the cooler off the back steps, because Parse had really, really better not be implying what he sounded like he was implying.

Being part of the leadership group was exhausting enough. Jeff had absolutely zero interest in the extra demands that'd get dumped on him if he had a letter on his jersey.  
  
  
After they changed and loaded up Parse's car, Jeff called his dad to let him know that he was staying an extra night since he had a headache and they shouldn't worry.

"'Headache,'" Dad repeated dubiously.

"Yeeeeeah," Jeff said, shrugging. "It's my fault, I should've known not to try and keep up with the Americans' party drinking."

"Hey," Parse said.

Jeff snickered. "I'll be back tomorrow," he added to his dad.

"All right," Dad answered. "We'll see you then."

"Yeah, see you," Jeff agreed, before hanging up.

"Got away with stayin' out without being grounded?" Parse asked, eyebrow raised.

"Piss off," Jeff replied amiably. "I had to let them know or they'd freak out when night hit and I still wasn't back."

"You're living there?" Parse asked, surprised.

Jeff shrugged. "I'm already paying for the place in Vegas," he answered. "I'm not spending more on a second home until my agent hashes out my extension."

Plus, he couldn't realistically afford a home in his parents' neighborhood without dropping into debt. And if he moved out of the area, he'd lose his membership at the neighborhood club now that he was an adult, which would mean going through the hassle of finding a new gym. But Jeff doubted that was the kind of problem Parse would have much empathy for.

"Gotcha," Parse said, nodding.

Parse's parents' house was only several miles away. It looked pretty standard, but Jeff hadn't forgotten that Parse had mentioned he'd bought it for them.

"Nice place," Jeff told him as they pulled around to the garage.

It was, especially compared to the first house: a two-story with a deck and an above-ground pool in the backyard, set way back from the street, near the end of the road without any neighbors too close by. It looked like a nice country vacation place and Jeff could never ever say that phrase out loud or Parse would verbally eviscerate him, he could literally see that future unspooling and there was no outcome that ended well for him. "They must really like it."

"Eh," Parse equivocated as he turned off the engine. "Once I get the central air in, it'll be all right."

"It would physically harm you to just take a compliment, huh?" Jeff asked, eying Parse as he undid his seatbelt. "It'd cause you literal physical pain."

Parse just snerked and popped open the trunk. "Get the cooler, Swoops."  
  
  
The house was empty when they went in through the back.

"Yeah," Parse said, putting the hamburger patties into the fridge. "Mom's got work, and Dad'll be at church until tonight."

"Huh," Jeff replied. Parse hadn't struck him as particularly religious, but maybe he'd been wrong if his dad was spending all day at church. "Like, for Sunday school?"

Parse shook his head. "He's the church secretary," and damn, okay, that was way more religious than Jeff'd expected.

...Well, at least now he was certain that he was definitely over-reading some of the stuff Parse said around him sometimes. Good to know.

Sucked to know, because Jeff had apparently been clinging to that unlikely hope a lot harder than he'd let himself acknowledge given how disappointed he now felt. But better to know now, before he said anything that wound up burning his whole career. "Ah.

"That why he had to miss the dads' trip?" Jeff asked.

Parse had stepped around his dad's noticeable absence during that weekend last season, saying that he'd had a pre-existing engagement he couldn't break. If church was this big a deal in Parse's family, Jeff guessed it'd explain why the man couldn't make it.

"Mm," Parse replied in an unreadable tone.

. . . Okay, well, that was definitely the sound of Parse telling him to step off of something he Did Not want to talk about. Righteo.

Jeff floundered for a topic change as Parse finished stacking the last package of patties in the fridge.

Parse shut the door, turning around as he wiped his hands on his jeans. "Wanna hit the gym?"

"Yeah, cool," Jeff agreed.  
  
  
Parse's gym was set up awkwardly around the kitchenette in the basement. Jeff guessed Parse didn't care much about organization if he was just temporarily keeping his equipment here until he got his own permanent place.

They knew each other's routines, so it wasn't hard to organize their reps so neither of them were trying to use the same piece of equipment at once. Except then Parse started cooling down while Jeff still had half his set to go.

"I'm headin' upstairs," Parse told him, wiping his face off with a towel. "Yell when ya need a spotter."

"'Kay," Jeff panted.

He couldn't resist adding, "Can't believe you're givin' me an opening to chirp you, quittin' early."

"Nah," Parse said, slinging the towel over his shoulder. "I already came in this morning and did my first set."

"Bullshit," Jeff replied with air he didn't have to waste, because no way. "This is bullshit. You're a robot. No fuckin' way you were up that early."

Parse shrugged. "You wanna beat the competition, do what it ain't willing to."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, how were you surprised they made you captain," Jeff grumbled, because there was no safe way to thump his head against the treadmill screen while running. "Alright, see ya."

Parse just made a quiet noise and waved over his shoulder as he left.  
  
  
A couple hours later, Jeff had finally finished his workout and taken a good hot shower. When he went looking for Parse afterward, he found him out in the driveway with a guy who had a military buzzcut.

"Deck good?" the guy asked, hauling a bag of charcoal out of a car trunk.

"Put 'em in th' garage," Parse answered, pulling another bag out. "Said it might rain tonight."

The guy shook his head. "Nah. Don't look like it."

"Better safe 'n sorry," Parse replied.

"Want help?" Jeff called, heading over, even though the absolute last thing he wanted to do right now was drag a heavy bag around. Curse this near-physical need to try and be courteous. Couldn't his parents have raised him entitled enough that he could just not give a damn once in a while?

"Yeah, there's one more," Parse answered, nodding back at the trunk. "Thanks. This is my cousin Danny," he added. "Danny, Jeff Troy."

"Yeah, I recognized 'im," Danny replied, grinning. "Guy who gave ya a run for yer money scorin' goals. Work harder, Kenny," and Jeff liked this guy already.

"Couldn't get near my points," Parse replied casually, like the little bastard he was. "Anybody can shoot at the goal, playmaking's the real work."

"I'm right fucking here, Parse," Jeff drawled, hefting the last bag of charcoal out of the trunk.

"Truth hurts, man," Parse grinned back as Jeff pushed the trunk closed. "Better try harder next year, eh?"

"Quit bein' an ass," Danny told him. "Y' can't fight well enough t' get away with it yet."

"Shuddup," Parse told him, making Danny snort hard.

"'Yet'?" Jeff replied, carrying the bag over to the closed garage door where Parse and Danny were setting their own down. "Never."

"Nah, I been teachin' him," Danny replied, as Parse lifted his hands in exasperation. "Mom's lightin' candles every game, but I figgered trainin' him not to die after runnin' his mouth'd be faster."

"Gatdammit, Danny," Parse scowled, as Jeff dropped his bag by the garage door and said, "I need you to tell me _everything_."

Danny laughed. "Kenny here got us seats on th' glass last playoffs," he told Jeff. "Close enough we heard his endless shit-talkin'. Mom realized 'This damn fool's gonna get himself killed' and started prayin' every game since."

He scrubbed Parse's hair while Jeff cackled. "'Parently the Virgin Mary looks after dumbasses. Make playoffs again, Mom's requestin' masses."

Parse pinched the bridge of his nose. "At least the fightin' lessons're **useful**."

Danny smacked him upside the head. "Don't be sacrilegious."

" _You're_ the Catholics, not us," Parse retorted, looking completely unfazed about being hit. Jeff slid his hands into his pockets, and decided to just keep his face straight. He didn't know Parse's relationship with his family. "Go open the garage."

" **You** open it, it's yer fuckin' house," Danny replied cheerily.

Parse exhaled in exasperation. "Don't talk shit about me while I'm gone."

"Not a fuckin' chance, Kenny," Danny grinned. "Better move yer ass, huh? Don't want me standin' out here jawin'."

Parse growled something in French and took off for the back door.

"I'm so glad I stayed," Jeff said, because it was pretty great to watch somebody take zero shit from Parse. "--Are you _serious_ about teaching him to fight?"

Danny just shrugged. "Hockey player, innit he? Gotta be able to defend himself 'gainst rats."

"Huh," Jeff said, before looking at Danny's buzzcut again. "...You in the police? Or, military?"

"Marines," Danny answered, and Jeff lifted his eyebrows before he could stop himself. "Home on leave."

"Huh," Jeff repeated. Behind them, the garage door started opening.

Jeff waited a couple moments until it was higher, and then asked loudly, "Hey so, if Kent's being trained by a marine, how come I was able to pin him so easy this morning?"

Parse gave him an unimpressed look as he stepped underneath the door and picked up one of the bags.

Danny gave Jeff a long up-and-down look as he picked up another bag, before turning to Parse.

"Y' got pinned by _him?_ " he asked in disbelief, which Jeff didn't think was a hundred percent necessary. He wasn't the most ripped guy on the team, but still, damn. Rude.

"I was tryin' not to wake up Jonah," Parse replied, dumping the charcoal near some gardening tools. "I coulda reversed it if I'd wanted."

"Prove it," Jeff said recklessly, hauling his bag over to the same spot. Parse gave him another annoyed look.

Jeff grinned back wide. He was sure he was setting himself up for trouble and gave no fucks about it, this was fun.

"You really wanna fight on concrete," Parse said flatly. "How much're you insured for again, Swoops?"

"Y' got mats in th' basement," Danny replied, dropping his bag. "You talked big, Kenny. Prove it."

"Alright, motherfuckers," Parse muttered, punching the button to close the garage and turning for the door. "C'mon."

When they were back in the basement, Danny folded his arms and asked Jeff, "How'dja pin 'im?"

"We were playing video games on the couch. So, first I headlocked him," Jeff answered, wrapping an arm around Parse's neck.

And then his legs were swept out from under him. Jeff flailed in surprise as Parse yanked his arm loose from around his neck and twisted it up behind Jeff's back, rolling him to the side and slamming Jeff down on his stomach.

"Holy shit," he gasped into the mat, as Parse knelt on his back.

Parse snorted smugly. "Way too easy, Troy."

Jeff wondered if it was okay that this was kind of hot. He always knew Parse was strong, that was just a factor of their careers, but knowing that Parse could hold his own in a fight was something else.

Not even just hold his own; he could probably beat Jeff in a real fight. Jeff could handle himself in a roughing match, but that was nowhere near the level of 'getting bona fide lessons from a marine.'

Which meant if Parse yielded to him in any kind of real struggle, they'd both know he was doing it because he was letting Jeff overpower him. Because Parse was letting him--

\--Troy, could you _literally not_ right now, this was **not the time** to risk chubbing up. For fuck's sake.

"Meh," Danny said. "Shoulda kicked his kneecaps."

"He's my _teammate_ ," Parse replied in exasperation. "I'm not cripplin' him."

Okay but just what in the flying fuck kind of fighting lessons was Parse **getting**??!?

"Holy _shit_ ," Jeff managed, cracking up. "I gotta call Scraps _right now_."

"No," Parse told him.

"Oh **hell** yes," Jeff replied, laughing harder even though it hurt with Parse digging his knee into his back. "Abso _lutely_ fucking yes, **Kenny**."

"Goddammit," Parse muttered. "Call me that again and you're drivin' home tonight."

Jeff just kept cackling. "Get off me, your knee's fuckin' bony."  
  
  
Parse's cousin left a little while later, after Jeff had been used as a throw doll a few more times until Danny had apparently gotten tired of telling Parse to quit pulling his punches whenever he flipped Jeff onto his ass on the floor.

Which, honestly? Still kind of hot. Even though Jeff had been getting pretty fed up with losing by the end.

"Wanna head out for dinner?" Parse asked.

"Huh," Jeff replied reflexively, because he'd just assumed they'd eat with Parse's parents.

But then, he didn't have a solid reason to expect that. And Parse pretty much had a negative incentive to have Jeff stay for dinner, and potentially learn any more embarrassing or hilarious facts about him from his parents.

"Sure," he agreed. "Where do you wanna go? That pub Derek works at?"

Parse made a face and hesitated.

"Or we could go back to your place," Jeff backtracked, although as far as he knew Parse didn't have much left in the fridge besides breakfast stuff and a lot of empty space where yesterday's party food had been.

"Nah, just...if we go out, we're gonna get hassled," Parse said, picking up his keys off the kitchen counter. "The people that live here are cool. But it's peak tourist season, they always barrel right up."

"Gotcha. I don't need my ego gettin' crushed when a swarm of people elbow me aside to get your autograph," Jeff replied, very proud of how dryly he'd managed to deliver that. Parse snorted.

"How 'bout take-out?" Parse asked, as they were heading out. "Derek's place makes pretty good lasagna."

"Oh, 'pretty good,' highest praise from Kent Parson," Jeff drawled, earning himself a side-long look from Parse as he opened the garage. "Yeah, sounds good."

"Alright."

Jeff called in their order using a crumpled menu Parse had fished out from inside the road map wedged between the driver's seat and the central armrest. "The lasagna, yeah. Thank you."

"The veggie one," Parse added, making a right turn.

"Sorry, the veggie lasagna," Jeff corrected.

Once he was off the call, he looked over. "Is that one better?"

"Nah. But one've my cousins's gone vegetarian," he answered, and Parse's expression made it clear what he thought about that. "I figure I'll bring whatever we don't eat over tomorrow, so Emily's not just eatin' salad all day."

"All right," Jeff agreed, flipping back to his current string of texts to Scrappy.

He'd planned to wait and tell the other man about Parse getting literal fighting lessons from a literal-ass marine until he saw Scrappy in person again, since it felt like news best delivered when Jeff could see Scraps' reaction. But it turned out he didn't have that much willpower.  
  
  
They still had forty minutes to wait after they reached the pub, so they grabbed some seats at the bar.

Jeff had believed Parse when he'd said that people would come up if they went out to eat in the town, because obviously they would--he was Kent Parson. But it was still surprising when Parse picked the seat at the absolute farthest end of the bar, against the wall. He'd grabbed an old Buffalo Bandits cap from his backseat and had it pulled down low over his face.

Jeff took the stool next to him, aware as he did that he was creating an extra visual blockade between Parse, the door, and the majority of the room.

Jeff ordered the lowest decent ABV beer on tap while Parse got a coke, and they killed time by splitting an order of poutine and debating whether baseball or lacrosse was the better summer sport.

Jeff didn't particularly care about baseball, but Parse had legitimately strong feelings about lacrosse and there was no way Jeff could pass up antagonizing him for it. Plus, their visibly engaged conversation was probably holding at bay at least a couple tables of people who'd been eying Parse for a while now.

"I'm just sayin', Crosby's not fit to touch Tavares's hem," Parse replied, draining his coke while Jeff cackled.

"I can't believe you asked me 'Who's John Tavares?'" Parse added, in either real or extremely well-faked disgust. Jeff honestly wasn't sure. "Call yourself Canadian. 'Who's the greatest lacrosse player my country's ever produced?' Jesus."

Jeff snickered into a fist. "I dunno who the greatest, like. Canadian crossword solver is either, Parse. Ask me about someone _famous_."

"I'm gonna fuckin' fight you in the parking lot, you don't shut your mouth," Parse threatened under his breath, making Jeff crack up harder. "'Who's John Tavares?' Goddamn embarrassment to your nation's what **you** are."

Jeff shrugged with theatrical casualness as he took the last of the fries. "I like _real_ sports."

Parse dryly cussed him out in some really filthy-sounding French. Jeff smiled as wide as he could while eating the fries.

"If you're such a Tavares fanboy, how come you're always chirping the life outta Johnny when we're in New York?" Jeff asked a moment later, taking a drink of his still mostly-full beer.

Parse snorted with a dismissive gesture. "That's his nephew," he said derisively. "Talent isn't inherited."

Jeff snickered into his glass; but then Parse went still.

Parse brought his glass up to his face a second later, then realized it was empty and set it back down, jaw still tense.

Jeff raised an eyebrow. But Parse ignored him and waved at the bartender instead. When she came over with the soda gun, Parse held up a hand. "Just water."

"Alright. Your order should be just about ready," she told them.

Parse gave her a smile. "Thanks, Susan."

Jeff was getting used to dropped conversations when it came to Parse, so he just asked, "Should we close out?"

"Sounds good," Parse agreed.  
  
  
They got their food, posed for a couple selfies and signed some autographs for the group with kids who caught up to them on their way out, and headed back to Parse's house for dinner.

They ate on the couch while chirping each other's movie catch-up lists, and eventually played rock-paper-scissors when they couldn't find anything they agreed on. Jeff lost and got stuck watching the Orlando Bloom-less Pirates of the Caribbean movie.

Parse eyed him as the credits finally started rolling. "It wasn't that bad, man."

Jeff had maybe slumped a little over-dramatically across his half of the couch, but the movie deserved it. "You picked the only Pirates film without Kiera Knightly, Parse. You have no taste."

Parse rolled his eyes and tossed him the remote. "Alright, put on your rom-com. If it sucks, I'm changing it to Fast Five."

"You can _try_ ," Jeff replied, going into the movie rental list.

Parse just raised an eyebrow. Jeff made a face at him and turned back to the TV.

*

It should've been easier to fall asleep that night, since Jeff wasn't sharing the spare bedroom with three other people. But it wasn't.

The house was still warm even at night, and the ceiling fan in the room creaked loudly. Jeff had the windows open to get a breeze, but the crickets outside were losing their minds screaming or whatever it was crickets did to make all that noise. Rubbing their legs? Why did he even care, ugh, go to sleep already brain.

Scrappy replied to Jeff's texts after midnight. _I believe this isn't prank when Parse beat me in fight._

Jeff sniggered quietly as he rubbed his eyes, before writing _You got the part about him pinning me in 5 secs flat yeah?_

Scrappy sent back _That you, not me._ and then a shrugging emoji, a weightlifting one, and the upside down face, which was all accurate but rude. Jeff's snickering quickly turned into another yawn.

He drowsily wondered if drinking one of the last beers in the fridge would help him fall asleep, or if that was a dumb idea. Probably.

He drifted off fitfully while still debating it.  
  
  
Jeff eventually decided to give the beer-as-alternative-sleeping-pill idea a try.

He pulled on his workout shorts and padded down the hall to the kitchen, moving quietly so the floorboards wouldn't wake anyone up. All the interior doors as well as the windows were open to get a cross-breeze, and this place creaked in a way Jeff hadn't noticed while the party guests were here.

He was sipping the beer on the couch, watching some movie on mute that he couldn't figure out the plot of, when he realized it was morning. Huh.

Oh well. That was fine. Everybody else had driven home last night, so they had all day alone with Parse before he had to go to his family birthday party tomorrow.

Parse came out of his own bedroom a little later, while Jeff was trying to figure out why the two lead actors had stopped making out in a basement and now were robbing a haunted ship.

Maybe subtitles would help. But Jeff knew the remote was stuck in Scrappy's bag for some reason, and he didn't want to risk waking him up by trying to get it. Scrappy had flown to the U.S. to come to Parse's party before he had to go to Toronto to do some stuff with his North American agent, and he was still a little jet-lagged.

"Whatcha watching?" Parse yawned, coming over and sprawling across the couch. He folded his hands under his head, and propped a foot in Jeff's lap. He wasn't wearing anything but a pair of boxer-briefs that showed off his thighs and ass and the outline of his chubbed-up dick.

"A romance. Horror," Jeff answered, bopping the sole of Parse's foot with the bottle, because Parse was intentionally resting it right on Jeff's cock.

Parse had been a flirtatious, double-entendre dropping little bastard all day yesterday, especially during the party, when he knew Jeff couldn't do anything about it except chirp back and get increasingly exasperated. And plan.

One of the actors threw a possessed corpse through a wall of the ship, making the place explode in spite of the literal ocean surrounding it. Jeff revised his answer to "Horror action romance."

Parse raised an eyebrow as he settled more comfortably on the couch, rubbing his ankle along Jeff's cock. "Uh-huh."

Jeff thumped the bottle a little harder against his sole. He couldn't remember why he hadn't done something about Parse yesterday, once the guests were gone. Probably because he couldn't always reward Parse's behavior by giving him what he was angling for.

Which was why Parse was being an even bigger brat now, after having to go to bed alone last night. "Don't ask me," Jeff shrugged. "It was on when I came in."

Parse just snorted, pressing his ankle more firmly along Jeff's cock. "Lazy as always, Swoops."

Jeff pressed the length of the icy bottle to the sole of Parse's foot.

He gripped Parse's ankle tight when Parse automatically tried to jerk back, and held him still. Parse tried to yank his foot free one more time; and then he met Jeff's eyes and grinned wide, showing all his teeth.

"You been asking for it lately," Jeff said mildly.

"Yeah?" Kent replied, still with that challenging smirk. He was doing a good job of holding still, although Jeff could feel his muscles twitching under his palm at the unpleasant stimuli. "So? Guess nobody's around who knows how to give it to me."

"You can never just behave," Jeff said, pressing the bottle harder against Kent's sole to feel him jerk again. "You always gotta make me put you in your place."

Kent shivered and bared his teeth a little wider, still holding Jeff's gaze as he tried to keep up his casual pose. "Not my fault you're allergic to work, Troy."

Jeff shook his head and pulled the bottle away, setting it down on the windowsill.

"Alright, Kenny," he said, making Kent narrow his eyes. "You brought this on yourself. Again."

Kent tried to twist free with a sudden hard jerk to the side, but Jeff'd been expecting it. He used Kent's momentum to flip him over the edge of the couch.

Kent really did make him work for several minutes. He fought back hard as Jeff wrestled him down into a pin, until Jeff knew he was going to have carpet burns on his knees and a forearm. Kent was clearly pent up after being ordered to go sleep on his own last night.

But after everything he'd put up with yesterday, so was Jeff.

He never 'won' the fight, because he knew Kent could take him down if he'd been taking this seriously. Jeff had a bigger frame and more height, and even in the middle of rebuilding his body mass after the past season he had more muscle on him; but Kent was a dirty brawler, always going 150% right out of the gate, and it still caught Jeff by surprise even now when he knew to expect it. Kent always made him break a real sweat any time they play-fought.

But soon after Jeff rolled them too close to the wall and accidentally banged hard into the media cabinet--and then had to quickly let go of Kent to catch the TV before it fell forward--Kent let him pin him down.

Although he cussed Jeff out under his breath as he did, accusing him of cheating by trying to break his stuff as a distraction. Which, in fairness, Jeff probably would've done if he'd thought about it.

Okay, probably not. He really didn't want to risk Kent or himself getting a concussion because a flatscreen toppled onto their heads. But he definitely would've thought about it.

Jeff readjusted the pin, twisting Kent's arm a little higher behind his back and getting a solid grip on his neck. And then he pushed himself up on his knees to catch his breath, leaning his weight onto Kent to keep him pressed down against the carpet.

Kent twisted underneath him and punched him one more time in the thigh with his free hand, but it was half-hearted. He wanted Jeff to get to the next part already.

"Every fucking time with you, Parson," Jeff said, as he heard the floorboards creak in the hallway. "You always gotta make it harder for yourself."

Kent started to cuss him out again. Jeff tightened his grip sharply on his neck, making Kent break off with a choked shudder. When Jeff dug his fingers into the sides of his throat, Kent went still beneath him, panting hard.

In the side of Jeff's vision, he saw Scrappy come up to the doorway and lean against the frame, watching them drowsily.

"What do I do with you?" Jeff said to Kent, annoyed with himself that he was still slightly out of breath. He needed to up his cardio. "Not only do you come out and immediately start bein' a shit to me, now you woke up Scraps."

Kent shivered and then tensed to hide it.

It never worked--Jeff didn't, like, lose all sensation in his nerve endings and become unable to feel and see Kent do it--but Kent always had to try anyway. Jeff clicked his tongue.

"That's what you were _tryin'_ to do, isn't it," he said, shifting his grip and roughly twisting Parse's head to the other side, so he could see Scrappy leaning in the doorframe. "Even though you know he's jet-lagged.

"Can you believe him?" Jeff asked Scrappy, jerking his chin at Kent.

"Yeah," he answered before yawning--which, okay, fair, that was probably true but it didn't really move things along.

Oh well. Jeff and Dimitri were still working on their tag-team flow; they'd get better. Jeff was totally down for the two of them practicing with Kent until they made perfect.

Jeff tsked again and let go of Kent's neck in order to catch his free arm. He twisted it up behind Kent's back as well and rolled onto his feet, hauling Kent up with him.

"Yeah, alright," Jeff agreed, navigating backward toward the couch with a predictably more docile Kent. Jeff took advantage of it to shift his grip again, transferring both of Kent's wrists into one hand. "I dunno why I keep being surprised."

His calves hit the couch. Jeff sat down and added, "Guess I keep expecting one of these lessons about what'll happen if you're a selfish brat to stick," before grabbing the nape of Kent's neck again and pushing him down hard to his knees.

\--No, shit, this carpet was really thin and the wooden floor under it was hard. Don't do that again without a pillow, Troy.

Jeff readjusted the way Kent was boxed in between his legs to give Kent cover to shift into a more comfortable position, and nodded at Dimitri. "C'mere."

Dimitri obeyed, scratching his bare stomach absently as he crossed the room. He wasn't wearing anything but the boxers he'd slept in, because apparently Jeff was the only one here who didn't believe in sitting on furniture in his underwear, but whatever. Dimitri's boxers were currently showing off his morning wood, so Jeff wasn't complaining.

Kent swallowed quietly and shifted on his knees as Dimitri came over, but he wasn't discreet enough about it. Jeff smirked, and let go of the back of Kent's neck to sink a hand into his hair instead.

"Where'd all that fight go, Kenny?" Jeff asked softly.

Kent shivered again and shut his eyes.

"You finally remember it's two against one?" Jeff asked. "Decided you don't actually wanna face the consequences, now that you remember just how well Scraps and I can work you over?"

Kent's hands flexed behind his back as he started breathing a little harder. He didn't answer.

Jeff tsked and pulled on Kent's hair until Kent bent his head backward with a grimace. "Shame you never seem to remember until it's just a _little_ too late."

Kent bared his teeth again, and then grunted when Jeff gave his curls a sharp tug.

"Swoops," Dimitri chided, frowning a little.

Jeff exhaled, but he eased up his grip enough that Kent could move his head again if he tried.

One of the reasons he and Dimitri were still working out their tag-team flow was because the two of them had very different opinions about how leniently to deal with Kent whenever he acted up, because Dimitri was way more generous than Jeff.

But that was good. Jeff knew Dimitri's kinder hands balanced out the dynamic between the three of them, giving Kent a refuge when he needed it and holding Jeff accountable if Dimitri thought he was going too far.

Jeff didn't always agree, but he understood that Dimitri called him out not just for Kent's sake but also for Jeff's own. He always made himself seriously consider whether Dimitri was right that he was being too cruel.

Jeff was just fine with being the one Kent came to when he wanted to earn praise, instead of being given affection unreservedly. He liked guiding Kent through that work, liked peeling off all of Kent's facades and layers of deflections and defenses. He liked how Kent always fought back against being laid bare, and how he always eventually, slowly, yielded.

Jeff liked making Kent push his physical and emotional limits hard, liking pulling Kent all the way to the edge of those lines. He liked how emptied out it left Kent afterward, slack and exhausted from giving everything over to Jeff and trusting that Jeff would bring him up carefully, fitted back together and whole again. Feeling better than before, if Jeff really got it right. Jeff loved that, every time.

But there was a line between demanding Kent's best and being an abusive asshole, and Jeff never wanted to cross it.

Dimitri had a much better conscience than Jeff, but he still expected Jeff to know the right things he had to do--and to do them sooner, not later.

Dimitri always trusted Jeff to do what was right, for reasons Jeff couldn't fully understand. He didn't know why Dimitri kept being willing to share Kent with him, when he knew exactly what kind of man Jeff was.

But Dimitri not only kept trusting him, he even kept trying to help Jeff stay on the path that...well, that Jeff knew he _should_ want, regardless of how he actually felt sometimes.

Jeff couldn't help wondering sometimes when it was all going to end. He and Kent might've been together before Dimitri joined them, but Kent and Dimitri were friends first. Jeff knew that Dimitri could easily take Kent all for himself if he wanted to; and even if Dimitri never actively tried to pull Kent away because he wasn't that kind of man, Jeff knew it was still going to happen eventually.

Kent was better off with Dimitri. Safer. And sooner or later, he was going to realize that, and make the right choice.

And then Kent and Dimitri would leave Jeff behind and be happy together.

Jeff knew this couldn't go on forever, even though he rarely wanted to think about that. He usually sidestepped it by always telling himself to appreciate everything while he still had Kent and Dimitri, so that maybe he could keep them a little longer. And he did.

But still.

"He has been a complete fucking shit since I hit the driveway yesterday," Jeff argued. "You _heard_ him!"

Dimitri gave Kent a rueful smile as he had to nod. "You really were," he agreed, lightly gripping Kent's chin and lifting it.

Kent shuddered hard, tightening his jaw. He still had his eyes shut. He was always such a pain at the start, locking away inside himself until Jeff got that reflexive first defense down.

Jeff didn't mind; he liked the pushback, liked how Kent demanded that Jeff earn the control Kent eventually relinquished to him. But Dimitri had talked to Jeff once about how that wasn't really how he and Kent did things together, which explained why it made Dimitri visibly kind of concerned to see Jeff and Kent fight like that.

Jeff tightened his grip on Kent's wrists and pulled his hair more, until the back of Kent's head was resting against the couch cushion, leaving his throat taut and exposed.

"Dimitri's talking to you, Kent," Jeff said, trying to nail down the right voice to convey that he wasn't starting their usual back-and-forth until he got Kent focused on him, but that he **was** serious. "Quit it and look at him."

Kent disobeyed for a few seconds, because he was Kent and predictable. Jeff might've also fucked up getting the tone of his voice right, but the first few seconds that Kent ignored him were definitely just because he was a dick.

Dimitri rubbed his thumb along Kent's jaw, starting to look worried as he bit the inside of his lip. Jeff tugged Kent's curls slightly.

Kent took a slow, deep breath, and then dropped his shoulders as he exhaled. He swallowed and opened his eyes, and looked up at Dimitri.

"That's better," Jeff said, as Dimitri stopped biting his lip and gave Kent a half-smile instead. Jeff ruffled Kent's hair just to be obnoxious, and added, "Seriously, you're being a brat _while I'm telling him_ how you're a brat. You're your own worst enemy, Parse."

Kent growled at him. Jeff tried really hard not to snicker and asked, "How was that supposed to help your case?"

Kent made an irritated face, but he had the self-preservation not to smart off just now.

Dimitri shook his head even as he cupped Kent's chin. "You know you were a pain in the neck yesterday," he told him.

Kent shrugged--impressively casually, considering that Jeff still had his arms pinned behind his back. "A little chirping's goin' too hard now?"

"I heard the hot dog comment, Parser," Dimitri pointed out, and Kent didn't even try to hide his smirk.

"You need to tell me all of that one," Jeff reminded Dimitri. He'd missed the majority of that particular chirp because he'd been too busy pumping Michel about the time in Juniors when the captain of his and Kent's team had turned an extinguisher on some of the guys after he'd caught them playing fire hockey, before reading them all the riot act--especially Kent, since he was both an alternate captain and the one who'd shown up with the lighter.

Jeff never got the end of that story, because that was the point when Kent raised his voice enough that he couldn't be missed as he said, "Nah, just send Swoops on a grocery run."

Jeff had looked over, trying to figure out what he was getting roped into now. Kent added, "He'll find some great hot dogs. Got a real eye for tasty meat," which was when Jeff choked on his beer and wound up dumping most of it all over his shirt.

The people around Kent at the grill had cracked up while Jeff swore and yanked his shirt off before it could soak down to his jeans.

Michel'd snorted in amusement and called, "Media training, Parse!" as Jeff wiped off his chest and seriously considered throwing the shirt right at Kent's smarmy, chuckling face. It was definitely a bad idea to chuck alcohol-drenched fabric near open flames, but Jeff was pretty sure he'd earned it by this point.

"'All of that one,'" Kent repeated, smirking wider as he caught Jeff's gaze. "I wasn't bein' _subtle_ , Troy. I didn't have a fuckin' buildup to the punchline."

"You are always so much more of a little shit when you know Scrappy's protecting you," Jeff replied, digging his nails into Kent's scalp.

"Story of my life," Dimitri said wryly, and dammit Jeff had been doing good keeping his face straight as Kent needled him but that one got to him. He cracked up.

"Jesus," Jeff snickered. "No kidding."

Kent just shrugged again, still smirking and too damn pleased with himself. Dimitri sighed, but it was kind of undermined by his small, fond smile.

Jeff regained control of himself and shook his head. "Yeah, alright," he said, since it was time to get back on track.

"I was gonna tell you to apologize, but let's not kid ourselves," he told Kent. "I think you've done enough talkin', Parse. Time for you to shut up for a while."

Jeff looked up at Dimitri and gave his lingering erection an extremely blatant, impossible-to-miss once-over. "Got anything you want him to help you with?"

Dimitri chuckled once. "Yeah."

"Still tryin' to pawn off work, Troy?" Kent said, because god forbid he didn't get a final dig in. "Real embarrassment of an alt I got."

"Stop making it worse for yourself, Parser," Dimitri told him, patting his cheek.

"Tell fish to breathe air while you're at it," Jeff drawled. Dimitri snickered again as he pulled his cock out of his boxers.

But then he hesitated, sucking on the inside of his lip once more as he studied Kent and Jeff. Kent shivered and closed his eyes again.

Jeff could guess what the issue was. Kent was visibly hard now; but that didn't change the fact that he was still shoved down on his knees and held in place by Jeff's pretty uncharitable grip.

When Dimitri slid his hand gently into Kent's curls, shifting his fingers underneath Jeff's own, Jeff let go of Kent's hair and dropped his hand to his thigh.

Dimitri eased Kent's head up to a more comfortable position, rubbing his thumb along Kent's hairline. "Okay?" he asked quietly.

Kent took another long breath.

Jeff made a mental note to talk to Dimitri about interrupting the flow soon. He was driving them to Toronto tomorrow morning, since Dimitri was staying with Jeff at his parents' house while he did his agent stuff. They'd have plenty of time during the ride.

But maybe it wasn't a problem? If Jeff was being honest, he let Kent skate too much on having to explicitly state what he wanted. Jeff enjoyed reading Kent's cues and puzzling out what he needed, especially if Kent wasn't fully capable of admitting it. And he liked the reward of pulling Kent down into those desires, slow and ruthless.

But Dimitri was a better person than Jeff. He needed to know that Kent was on the same page with him from the beginning.

So all right. If Dimitri was breaking things a little for confirmation, then Jeff should've done a better job of making him feel confident that they were good to go at the start.

But they should still talk later. Jeff wanted to make sure that Dimitri wasn't blurring his personal lines because he felt he needed to, in order to make Jeff and Kent happy. Dimitri didn't always speak up if he wasn't sure there was a reason to do so.

Jeff would check with him while they were heading to Toronto. For now, he waited for Kent's answer.

Kent exhaled slowly, and nodded.

"Yeah, we're okay," he answered, looking at Dimitri. "...C'mon already, Scraps. I've been fuckin' begging for it."

"Okay," Dimitri replied, as his hesitation melted away.

Yeah, Jeff definitely needed to check in with him. He made a mental note to do it asap, as he stroked his free hand over Kent's shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze.

Jeff probably should make Kent talk more; but on the other hand, in some ways Jeff made things easier on him than Dimitri did. Jeff let Kent choose fights he could eventually decide to lose, and allowed Kent to bypass having to fully acknowledge some of the things he didn't want to admit he enjoyed by framing them as Jeff coercing him into them. It spared Kent from having to consciously own his desires.

Maybe Jeff shouldn't like that, shouldn't get off on playing out fantasies like that with Kent. But he liked it anyway.

And so did Kent. Which was slowly making it easier for Jeff to start accepting that maybe it didn't matter so much what kind of person he 'should' be, as long as his partners were satisfied and unharmed by who he actually was.

But that wasn't how Dimitri liked to do things. He needed Kent to say upfront what he wanted, which ultimately demanded that Kent offer up a lot more vulnerability to Dimitri right from the start.

Jeff didn't think Dimitri's way was any better or worse than his own. It was just different, since Jeff and Dimitri's own preferences were different. It meant they were still working out how to balance things between all three of them, but they'd get it sorted.

But all that aside, Dimitri still went way too easy on Kent.

Jeff cupped the back of Kent's neck and reminded him, "That's not how you ask for something."

Kent made a low, frustrated noise in the back of his throat and started to close his eyes again. Jeff tightened his grip.

Kent huffed out another breath. But then he looked up at Dimitri.

"Please." Kent flexed his hands in Jeff's grip, but his voice was steady as he asked, "Can I just suck your dick already, Scraps?"

"Still rude, but half a point for effort," Jeff commented. Kent elbowed him in the calf.

Jeff prodded him with his foot and leaned back, raising an eyebrow at Dimitri. "You should make him beg for real," he suggested. "He needs more practice."

Kent made an aggravated noise. Jeff poked him with his foot again.

"Naw," Dimitri replied, shaking his head. He slid his hand down to cup the side of Kent's face, rubbing a thumb along his mouth.

Kent parted his lips for him immediately, even though he would've made Jeff force his jaw open and probably would have bitten him for good measure, until Jeff eventually threatened him enough that Kent decided to settle down and take it. "It's okay."

Jeff shrugged and let it go. When they'd first started out, Kent's hangups meant he could barely verbally acknowledge that he enjoyed sucking cock as much as he did. Jeff would've made Kent ask to give the blowjob at least one more time, but he'd also be the first to admit how far Kent had come since last year.

Kent exhaled through his nose, shoulders relaxing, as Dimitri started easing his cock into his mouth. He shifted his weight a little as he leaned back against the couch.

"Yeah," Dimitri said, smiling as he rubbed Kent's cheek. "That's good."

Kent's eyes drifted closed with a pleased noise as Dimitri slipped his cock deeper into his mouth. Jeff readjusted his grip on Kent's wrists when he settled heavier against the couch, pinning Jeff's hand awkwardly between his back and the frame.

Jeff wouldn't have let Kent get away with barely doing any of the work this early in, but eh, he'd handed him over to Dimitri. If this was how Dimitri preferred his blowjobs, that was good to know.

Besides, Dimitri looked great like this. His eyes were hooded as he fucked Kent's mouth lazily, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, one calloused hand gently cupping Kent's face as the other held his dick steady. It reminded Jeff that Dimitri had only woken up maybe ten minutes ago.

He needed to invite Dimitri to stay the night sometime, once they were all back in Vegas for new season. It'd be fun to learn more about what Dimitri was like when he was still sleepy during sex.

Jeff was starting to regret his decision to keep his hand off his cock until Dimitri had finished with Kent and passed him back over, when Dimitri fumbled his footing and rocked forward too much. Kent made a rough noise as he inadvertently pushed deep into his mouth.

Dimitri let go of his cock and gripped the back of the couch behind Jeff's shoulder instead, bracing himself better. "Sorry."

Kent shook his head slightly and leaned forward, taking in more of Dimitri's dick now that it was available.

"There you go," Jeff told him, mostly on reflex. He squeezed the back of Kent's neck. "Call _me_ lazy. I know you can suck cock better than this, Parson."

Dimitri huffed softly at that, but he let it trail off as Kent shivered with a low noise. Jeff smirked a little, but still told himself to cool it.

He'd actively made his earlier fight with Kent get loud enough to wake Dimitri up, so that he'd come join them. And he'd handed Kent over to Dimitri first. A little patience wasn't going to kill him.

Kent slumped harder against the couch. Jeff shifted his grip again as the frame dug into his wrist; and then he finally caught on. "--Ah."

Kent shivered. He went still as Jeff murmured, "Never satisfied, are you, Kenny?"

Jeff tightened his grip hard on Kent's wrists, even though his hand was starting to get tired. "Always chasing after more. You got both of us now, and it's still not enough to keep you happy?"

Kent flinched way harder than Jeff expected.

 _Huh_ , he thought, watching the sudden tension in Kent's shoulders as he clenched his fists.

Jeff made a note of it, and released Kent's neck. He ignored the other man's stifled grunt and reached up to brush a hand over Dimitri's forehead, wiping away the sweat along his hairline. "Scraps."

Dimitri blinked his eyes open, but it took him a couple more seconds to fully focus on Jeff. He was surprisingly close.

Jeff made a note of that too and pushed his bangs back. "Pull his hair."

Dimitri blinked again and dropped his head to look at Kent. "I...."

"He's squirming because he wants it rougher," Jeff explained. He should've figured that out the first time Kent put more weight onto his wrists to make himself feel pinned tighter; but in Jeff's defense, watching Kent suck Dimitri off was very distracting.

Dimitri still looked a little uncertain. Kent couldn't confirm Jeff's read this time with his mouth full, so Jeff made his most trustworthy face.

"C'mon, Dimitri," he encouraged. "Kent's been tellin' us what he wants for his birthday since we got here. Let him have what he wants, eh? Pull his hair a little."

Dimitri shivered and swallowed hard. Jeff slid his hand down the side of his face and rubbed his shoulder, waiting.

After a couple moments, Dimitri swallowed again. And then he drew his hand away from Kent's cheek and sunk his fingers into his curls.

Kent moaned loud for him. He honestly went a little over the top with it, but Jeff appreciated his effort to make sure Dimitri knew he was doing what Kent wanted.

"There you go," Jeff told them both, giving Kent's wrists a light squeeze as he cupped the back of Dimitri's head, urging him down a little more so Jeff could tap his forehead with his own. Jeff rubbed his thumb against the heel of Kent's hand, and kissed Dimitri briefly before adding, "Keep it up."

Dimitri swallowed again and nodded.

Jeff hummed in encouragement, and kept his hand curled around the back of his neck.

Kent settled down after that, going slack against the couch and letting Dimitri fuck his mouth slow and steady without any more struggling.

And really, even though Jeff knew he and Dimitri had different dynamics with Kent, sometimes it was hard to ignore how much easier Kent made everything for Dimitri. He was never so obedient this fast for Jeff; he always made Jeff work for it.

But Jeff got it. Of the two of them, Dimitri was the one who'd once flattened a Ducks player with one punch during a really brutal game, hitting the guy hard enough that he'd dislodged their net when he crashed into it, much to their goalie's annoyance. If Kent's type was guys bigger and stronger than him, Jeff couldn't exactly compete with _that_.

It was all right. Jeff had discovered over the past several months that his type was physically or/and mentally tough guys who did what they were told--sooner or later, or at least eventually in Kent's case--and considering how his cup was overflowing lately, Jeff had nothing to gripe about.

He definitely needed to start chirping Kent harder about being so easy for Dimitri, though. The little brat had earned it by dragging Jeff's ass approximately 9,186 more times than he'd gone after Dimitri yesterday.

Dimitri was breathing harder now, gripping the back of the couch tight. Jeff thought again about how close he'd seemed earlier, and touched his cheek. "Hey."

Dimitri forced his eyes open, but this time he could only focus hazily on Jeff.

Jeff smiled. "Close, huh?"

Dimitri nodded once hard.

Jeff cupped the side of his face. "Think you can stop before you come?"

Dimitri shuddered hard, digging his fingers into the couch as his hips stuttered. Kent choked slightly as Dimitri accidentally yanked harder on his hair. " _Jeff_."

He sounded desperate, and Jeff couldn't blame him. He'd also discovered over the last several months that part of his preference for tough guys who did what he told them to was how good it felt to edge them.

Maybe he was a little bit of a bastard about it, but only a little. ...Mostly a little. Maybe medium. He went easier on Dimitri than Kent, at least.

"I'll make it worth it," Jeff promised softly, running his knuckles down Dimitri's cheek. Dimitri's jaw was clenched and he was breathing hard, but so far he hadn't shaken his head no. "You know I do."

Dimitri shivered again as he swallowed down a whine. He'd stopped moving, mostly: he was still rocking his hips in small, sharp jerks as Kent kept sucking him off, but he'd fallen out of his initial rhythm.

Jeff smiled a little wider, and traced his knuckles along Dimitri's jaw before dropping his hand and settling back against the couch. "Think about it."

Dimitri was motionless for a few more moments, shaking with the effort, before finally taking a long breath. He relaxed his grip on Kent's hair, making Kent grunt in disappointment, and then started fucking his mouth a little more steadily.

Jeff waited. He made himself keep resisting the need to stroke his cock, even though he really wanted to by now.

He switched his grip on Kent's wrists to distract himself, swapping out hands. Jeff flexed his fingers to get the blood flow back into them, and kept watching Dimitri and Kent.

It didn't take long for Dimitri to get close again, his thighs flexing as his thrusts got shorter. He kept going until Jeff figured that he didn't want to wait.

Well, that was fine. It would've been fun, but they had all day. Jeff started vaguely revising his plans for what to do next--he still had a few options, and Dimitri was a part of them one way or another.

Then Dimitri let go of Kent's hair and pulled his cock out of his mouth, stepping back clumsily.

Jeff whistled low as his own dick jumped. Dimitri had decided to edge himself for him after all, god _damn_. Jeff had to give him something really good for this.

"There you go, Di-- Uh-uh," he said, grabbing a fistful of Kent's hair when he leaned forward to get his mouth back on Dimitri's cock. " _No_ , Parse."

He dragged Kent's head back to the couch as Kent snarled. "Time for you to start behavin' already," Jeff told him. "You're in deep enough shit as it is."

Kent bared his teeth, chest heaving.

Jeff didn't dignify that with a response and looked over at Dimitri. He was breathing hard too, head bowed, gripping his thighs as he trembled.

"Nice work," Jeff told him gently. Dimitri shuddered harder. "Breathe. You pushed right to the edge for me, huh?" he added warmly.

Dimitri jerked his head in a nod. He didn't have to--everything about him was screaming how close he'd gotten--but Jeff liked how he made the effort anyway.

"Good job," Jeff praised, and Dimitri clenched his thighs harder. "C'mere, sit down." He tilted his head at the couch.

Dimitri swore wearily and stumbled over, dropping down onto the empty side and gripping the armrest tight.

"There you go," Jeff repeated affectionately, sliding his foot over to press it against Dimitri's own. "You did good, Dimitri. Just breathe."

He obeyed, sinking deep into the couch as he closed his eyes.

Jeff let go of Kent's hair and reached over to rub Dimitri's chest as he worked to get his breathing steadier. Kent tilted his head to the side enough to look over at him, and then exhaled through his teeth and rested his forehead against Jeff's thigh.

He was impressed that Kent was willing to put aside his own wants so that Jeff could focus on easing Dimitri back down, despite also being interrupted. But then, Kent was always better for Dimitri.

Jeff gave him some points for it anyway. They lasted for the approximately twenty seconds it took for Kent to bite the inside of his thigh.

He didn't do it hard, but still. "Seriously?" Jeff asked in disbelief. "You know you're gonna pay for that. Too. For that _too_ , Parse. Maybe stop diggin' that hole, eh?"

Kent bit down harder, because he was Kent, and predictable.

Jeff shook his head and hauled him up onto his lap. "All right," he said. "Enough outta you already."

Kent immediately stretched his legs out, which meant Jeff should've gotten him up off his knees sooner. He could have pulled him up when he stopped Kent from getting his mouth back on Dimitri's cock.

He'd do better next time. Jeff aggressively ignored how Kent was shifting around right on top of his dick and looked back over at Dimitri.

Dimitri looked better, not so shaky and tense anymore. He was still hard, his cock red and slick with precome and spit, but he didn't look like getting touched would immediately make him come.

Jeff patted him on the chest. "You good?"

Dimitri swallowed and took a longer breath. He'd dropped his head against the back of the couch, leaving his throat taut, and Jeff resisted the urge to cup his hand up over it to feel him breathe. He wanted to get Dimitri cooled down, not to work him up again. It was gonna take time to get Kent set up for the next part.

"...Yeah," Dimitri managed hoarsely.

Jeff patted him again. "Good."

He added, "When we were getting the grill out of the garage yesterday, do you remember seeing that roll of twine?"

Dimitri frowned slightly up at the ceiling, thinking for a while, before shaking his head.

"On top of the cabinet," Jeff said, because he'd lobbed the unopened package of thick, rough twine up there yesterday evening.

"It might've fallen behind some other stuff when we were getting the grill out. But it should be up there," Jeff promised, because after tossing it he'd used a ladder to push the roll down between the wall and some paint cans. 

"I think there was a ladder in the corner, you could probably get it with that," he added, because he'd wedged the ladder into the opposite corner of the garage and piled up a bunch of lawn and gardening tools in front of it.

He knew Dimitri would be careful about moving them out of the way and about putting everything back in place he got the roll. Which meant it would take him even longer to finish Jeff's deceptively simple request. "Could you get it?"

Dimitri exhaled and rolled his head to the side to look at Kent, who was visibly controlling his breathing in an attempt to pretend he wasn't thinking about what was going to happen to him soon.

Jeff pulled his hand away from Dimitri's chest and ran his thumb over Kent's mouth. "I'm gettin' a little tired of having to keep a hold on him so he behaves," Jeff said, before dropping his voice lower. "I want my hands back."

Kent shivered, and then clenched his jaw and tried to hold still. Jeff just smiled and squeezed his wrists.

"He's behaving," Dimitri replied. "...Mostly."

"For _you_ ," Jeff drawled. "He literally just bit me like thirty seconds ago."

He tilted his leg out so Dimitri could see the fading mark on his inner thigh. Dimitri looked at it, and then sighed and rested his hand on top of Kent's head.

"Why are you always so bad for Jeff?" he asked disappointedly, and Kent flinched. "This is why he doesn't believe me when I say you're good."

Jeff did an excellent job of not smirking the way he really, really wanted to.

It usually took a while to convince Dimitri that Kent deserved what was coming to him. But fortunately, Kent's habit of falling for it when Jeff provoked him meant that Jeff could always put together enough evidence for his case sooner or later.

Dimitri pushed up from the couch and gingerly tucked his dick back into his boxers. "Okay."

"Maybe pants first, Scraps," Jeff suggested when he started for the kitchen door. There wasn't anything but trees outside all the windows, but Kent still had neighbors around somewhere.

Dimitri backtracked into the spare bedroom, came out wearing a pair of unbuttoned jeans that he looked really unhappy about, and went outside.

After the door had shut behind him, Kent said quietly, "Twine's on the bottom shelf."

Jeff finally let the smirk slide across his face, and into his voice. "Not anymore."

When Kent swallowed, Jeff pulled one of the cushions off the couch and added, "That ladder's a lot harder to get now, too."

He tossed the cushion onto the floor between his feet. "Let's find out how tough you are without Scraps around to protect you."

Kent shuddered hard, stumbling onto his feet as Jeff pushed him off his lap. " **Fuck**."

Jeff turned him around to face him. Kent had predictably gotten a hand on his dick the second Jeff'd released his wrists, peeling down his boxer-briefs to reach it.

Jeff grabbed his forearm and pulled his hand away. "Take those off."

Kent obeyed, since Jeff was telling him to do what he wanted to anyway. He added, "Put your hands behind your back."

Kent looked up from kicking away his underwear with a challenging sneer. "Fuckin' make me."

"Nah," Jeff said, settling back against the couch. He had to readjust when the cushions slid slightly now that one was missing. "Keep 'em behind you, and I'll let you come today."

Jeff pulled down his shorts and boxers and gave Kent a small, mean smile to cover the abject relief he felt as he finally got his cock free. " _Don't_ do it, and not even Scrappy'll be able to convince me to give you a break."

Kent narrowed his eyes. He dropped the hand he'd put back his cock; but he kept his arms at his side.

Jeff was pretty sure Kent knew he was serious, especially after Jeff had kept his foot down about Kent having to sleep alone last night even when Dimitri tried to argue for him.

Or maybe he still thought he could get around it. After all, Dimitri had convinced Jeff to let Parse stay in his own bedroom--the only room in the house with an air conditioning unit in the window--instead of Jeff and Dimitri taking over that room while Kent had to sleep in the spare bedroom, stuck with the noisy ceiling fan.

Dimitri didn't have an intentionally imploring expression, which was probably why his unintentional one worked on Jeff every time. Even when Jeff knew he shouldn't let it, because Kent was obviously expecting it to.

Either way, Kent had a stubborn streak a few dozen miles long that still tended to win out over his better judgment. He was clearly wavering between a sensible desire to not be denied an orgasm until tomorrow, and his reflexive urge to tell Jeff to go fuck himself for ordering him to do anything.

Jeff took pity, and made it easier for Kent to make the smart choice.

"Or maybe not," he said lower, making Kent frown. "Maybe I'd let Dimitri convince me eventually, if he worked hard enough."

Kent tensed.

Jeff gave him the most assholish smile he could manage--one that kinda made even him want to punch himself in the face just from feeling it on there. "You ever wonder how he'd look on his knees, nice and obedient?" he asked, watching Kent's fingers curl in. " _I_ do."

Jeff smiled more callously. "I bet humiliation'd look good on him."

Kent gritted his teeth and glared. He knew exactly what Jeff was pulling; but that didn't mean it wouldn't work.

After all, Jeff was telling the truth. Dimitri **would** look good like that: kneeling at his feet, head bent and shoulders hunched, ashamed and unresisting as he quietly told Jeff he could do what he wanted with him, as long as Jeff promised to be gentler to Kent afterward.

He wondered if Dimitri would tremble when he touched him, after he'd agreed. That would look even better.

Jeff stroked his cock slowly, keeping his grip loose as he held Kent's gaze. "I bet he'd do it, too, if I told him I'd be nicer to you afterward," he murmured. "Bet he'd let me do a lot of things."

Jeff smirked a little wider as Kent clenched his fists. "There's more than enough rope for both of you," he added. "After we've dealt with you, I bet he'd even hold still while I tied him up. And down."

Jeff lifted an eyebrow, and gave Kent hopefully the last push he needed. "I wonder just how much he could make himself take, if he tells himself it's for you?"

Kent broke and cussed him out intensely--to the point that Jeff was a little offended not only for his mom, but also his dad and every grandparent--and folded his arms behind his back.

Jeff just smiled, and jerked his chin at the cushion by his feet.

Kent knelt, teeth still bared.

Jeff tightened his grip on his cock, gut clenching in anticipation as he watched Kent settle in place between his legs. Kent was gripping his forearms so tightly that his fingers were digging into the muscle.

It didn't matter that in the back of his mind, Jeff knew this was just playing. Of course he'd never start anything like that without first talking it through with Dimitri and Kent, and making sure they both knew they could end it if they wanted. And obviously if Kent were genuinely getting pissed off, he could just stop this and tell Jeff not to do that again.

Not to mention that if there **was** some nightmare parallel universe out there where Jeff'd decided to just go ahead and be an amoral scumbag rapist who coerced people into sex instead of keeping his fantasies to himself, he still quasi-hoped he'd have enough sense not to put his dick in the mouth of anybody who looked ready to bite it off in spite. Although it'd serve that version of himself right.

It didn't matter, because it didn't change how good it felt to see Kent like this: forced to get on his knees, knowing that Jeff was about to make him choke on his cock, unwillingly but ready for it, because he'd rather take Jeff's lack of mercy onto himself than put somebody he cared for at risk.

Predictably.

"--Jesus," Jeff said before he could stop himself, voice cracking, because sometimes the things he wanted scared him so much that he had to recoil. He dropped his dick and cupped Kent's face instead. "How the fuck are you so good to me, god. Kent. You're so...."

He didn't know how to finish. Nothing was enough to describe how every time that Kent came along with him into a fantasy instead of running the fuck away, it left Jeff's heart so tender it terrified him. This couldn't last forever. " _Jesus_ , Kent."

Kent blinked and studied his face for a few long moments.

And then he huffed out a breath.

"You were doin' so well," Kent told him, raising a smartassed eyebrow. "Learn to finish your checks already, Troy."

Jeff snorted and then laughed hard, feeling the borderline panic that'd been welling up in his chest fade. "You little bastard."

"Keep sayin' it like you don't fuckin' love it, maybe you'll convince somebody out there one day," Kent said with a smirk. "Come on, don't promise me something and then back out. Fuck's sake."

He tilted his head into Jeff's palm until Kent could suck his thumb into his mouth, and then bit down harder on it than Jeff felt he deserved.

"Christ," he said, unable to stop smiling even as he shook his head. "All right, all right."

He got a solid hold on Kent's hair and gripped his chin before pulling his jaw down. Kent leered back at him, at least as much as he could with his mouth forced open.

"Make me come before Dimitri gets back, and I'll let him fuck you first," Jeff told him, yanking Kent forward into reach his dick before letting go of his jaw. "Even though it's obnoxious how obvious you are about preferring his nice big cock over mine."

Kent just snickered and gave him a shameless little shrug.

"Jesus," Jeff said wearily, holding down another laugh. He tightened his grip in Kent's hair and smacked him on the back. "Get to work, Parson. I'm not gonna do it for you like Scraps did."

"Literally just said why you can't," Kent smirked, and fucking _rude_.

Jeff gave Kent's hair a shake. "I swear to god, you little shit--"

Kent swallowed him down deep, fast enough that it caught Jeff off guard.

" _Fuck_ ," he growled, cupping the back of Kent's head. "It's been too long, I forgot how good you are at this."

He couldn't see much of Kent's face with the way he was bent forward over his lap, but Jeff could feel him smirk again as he pulled back slightly and then sunk Jeff's cock deeper into his mouth.

"Jesus," Jeff mumbled. He slumped into the couch and ran his hand along Kent's spine.

It wasn't long before Kent was nearly deepthroating him. Already. Jeff wondered if he'd been practicing over the summer; when he'd been packing up his Vegas apartment, he'd noticed that Kent's favorite dildo was missing from the drawer, but Jeff had assumed he'd just left it over at Kent's own place and they'd find it in September.

Jeff ran his hand along Kent's spine one more time, before letting it rest on the back of his neck. ". . . I know you noticed the extra bag I brought. The one I kept locked."

Kent shivered faintly and sucked a little harder along his dick, which Jeff took as a yes. "One of those toys is the cock ring."

Kent trembled harder this time. Jeff wasn't surprised; he'd been kind of a bastard the last time Kent had worn it for him, because Kent had picked that day to be pigheadedly stubborn about asking Jeff to let him come, even after Jeff had sucked his cock for so long that his jaw ached all through their dinner afterward.

Jeff let go of Kent's hair and draped his arm along the back of the couch, but he kept his other hand curled loosely around his neck.

"Tell you what," Jeff said, softer. "Gag yourself for me, and I'll ask Scrappy if he's willing to wear it while he fucks you. Let you have that nice, fat cock for as long as you can stand it."

Kent shuddered and moaned around his dick, his throat tightening enough that Jeff's eyes shut briefly.

He smiled and rubbed his thumb along the nape of Kent's neck. "Yeah," Jeff murmured. "Been a long time, huh. We oughta make up for it."

He scratched his fingernails up the back of Kent's neck to feel him shiver again. "I wanna come, Kent. Do a little work, and you'll definitely get me off before he's back."

Jeff scratched his neck again, a little harder. "Betcha he'll even agree, if you show him how much you want it," he coaxed. "You can have everything you want today, Kenny. Just give me the effort."

Kent made a stifled, shaky noise. Jeff cupped his neck again and hummed encouragingly.

Kent pulled back, sucking the head of Jeff's cock for a few moments before taking a deep breath. And then he sunk back down until his forehead bumped Jeff's abs, choking a little as his cock hit the back of Kent's throat.

"Fuck," Jeff groaned, gripping the back of the couch. He splayed his other hand across Kent's back so he could feel his muscles work as Kent pulled up and then deepthroated him again, choking harder as he pushed down further this time. "God, Kent. I missed you so much."

Kent huffed out a breath through his nose and sucked hard on Jeff's cock, like he was trying to tell him to shut the hell up and focus on coming so Kent could get his promised rewards.

Jeff snickered and patted his back. "Yeah, okay."

It really _had_ been too long. He'd missed Kent bad, right down to the attitude. He'd missed him and Dimitri both.

A firetruck tore past the road in front of the house, siren wailing through the open windows. Jeff startled awake wildly enough that his feet got tangled in the blanket and he half-rolled off the air mattress.

" _ **Fuck**!_" he gasped, bracing a hand on the carpet, staring wide-eyed at the room. He was so hard, Jesus. It felt like if he put a hand on his dick or even just rubbed against the mattress a couple times, he'd come right then. " **Fuck**."  
  
  
Jeff held deathly still for a long time, until he no longer felt like he was about to come from any pressure stronger than a breeze, which was the sort of irony--given the dream he'd just had--that Jeff couldn't think about because it made him want to scream.

Somewhere after two a.m. he finally made his way to the bathroom at the end of the hall. He had to pass Parse's bedroom to get there; Jeff actively looked away from Parse's shut door.

He splashed cold water onto his face and scrubbed it hard, digging the heels of his hands against his eyes until he saw sparks.

Eventually, he dropped his hands and looked at the mirror above the sink. Jeff glared at his reflection and demanded, " _ **Seriously**?!_"

His reflection had no answers. Jeff growled under his breath and threw more water onto his face.

He couldn't do anything about his still-lingering erection, because if he jacked off in a house he was a guest in, especially a teammate's house--especially the house of his going-on-two-years-strong-now crush of a teammate who he'd just been wet-dreaming about, for _fuck's sake_ \--then some part of Jeff would shrivel up and die. Probably whatever fragment of shame he had left, assuming any was still actually buried down in there, who the fuck went and decided to double down on a bad-idea crush by **fantasizing about a second teammate** just for _god's sake, Troy_ \--

\--Especially a fantasy like **that** , Jesus Christ. The stuff he'd said to Parse, the stuff he'd thought about _Scrappy_ \--

Jeff made a furious, useless gesture at his reflection again. "You greedy, _fucked up_ \--Jesus...."

Why couldn't he just be normal? He didn't even have to be straight, but why the fuck couldn't he just be _normal?_

Jeff gripped the sides of the sink hard and thumped his forehead against the mirror, choking down an exhausted sob. ". . . goddammit."

*

Parse looked at him weird all through breakfast.

"You feeling okay?" he asked, again, after Jeff had accidentally banged his plate into the counter while reaching for the toaster and wound up flipping the whole damn thing onto the floor like an uncoordinated dipshit, because it turned out that being unable to fall back asleep in the middle of the night because you were afraid of having another fucked up fantasy about your goddamn teammates was a recipe for self-made disaster!

" _Yep_ ," Jeff said as he was cleaning the eggs up off the floor, too intense and completely unbelievable, because he only had so much mental energy left at this point and it was all focused on getting his ass out of here as soon as possible before he did anything stupid. Stupider. More stupid than everything else he'd done since stupidly saying 'yes' to Kent's party invitation.

Parse just stared at him, one eyebrow raised, as he took another drink of orange juice.

Jeff got halfway through the thought that he should've signed with and stayed in Edmonton, but then he broke it off because it turned out that despite the current everything, his life wasn't actually that bad. Maybe close. But still not Edmonton bad.

Jeff chucked the eggy paper towels into the trash and rubbed his forearm against his eyes. "You got any, uh. Bleach? Windex?" No, that was windows. Jesus Christ, maybe Jeff would just crash his goddamn car on the way home and be spared from having to deal with any more of this--okay, no, life wasn't that bad either. Gaaaaaaaugh.

Parse set his glass on the table.

"Dude," he said, serious and openly concerned now, and Jeff was going to throw himself out the kitchen door and sprint to his car and peel out of here, and fling his phone onto the highway as he went so he didn't have to face any of his self-created problems until he had to go back to Vegas in September.

"Yeah?" he asked, somehow sounding even more strung out than before.

"If you're not feeling good, stay here longer," Parse told him; and a small part of Jeff wanted to reflexively chirp him about already handing out orders like a captain.

No. He could not take that right now. Parse would immediately get the upper hand and completely drag his ass, and then this sustained freakout Jeff was trying to wrangle would probably slide into a full-blown psychological breakdown and he'd collapse onto the linoleum he'd just dumped his breakfast on two minutes ago. Jeff refused to live that in that reality.

"I'm all right," he said, like a liar. "Just a little tired. Once I get some coffee I'll be fine."

"Troy," Parse replied, deeply unimpressed. "I'm not lettin' you outta here if you're gonna hit a tree because you're wiped."

Jeff was tempted to say that he'd love to see the world where Parse thought his scrawny ass could 'not let' Jeff do anything he put his mind to, but then he remembered that it was actually this world. They were currently living in it, he'd gotten proof of that yesterday afternoon and Jeff's self-preservation took a hard pivot away from thinking anything more about _that_.

He leaned against the counter and waved a hand dismissively. "I'm fine, Parse. Don't worry."

"Fat chance," Parse said, settling back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest. "If you're too stubborn to admit it, guess what, I'm not letting 'Teammate gets DUI leaving underage Kent Parson's holiday party' be a headline."

Jeff scowled at him. "I'm not _drunk_ , you ass."

"That's a DWI," Parse replied. "DUI's 'under the influence,' and drivin' under the influence of fatigue counts."

Jeff paused, frowning. "...Is that a thing?"

"Yeah," Parse answered.

Jeff wasn't a hundred percent sure he believed him, but on the other hand it sounded logical. He rubbed his eyes hard.

Parse huffed out a breath. "Stay here until you feel better, Jesus. Why are you being so weird?"

Any attempt to answer that was going to lead Jeff down a rabbit hole of recriminations that he was not mentally or emotionally prepared for. He dropped his hands and exhaled hard. "I'm fine, man. Promise. I'm just a little tired."

"Then go sleep for a couple more hours and head out when you're up," Parse replied, sounding like he still didn't understand why Jeff was turning this into a federal case, and honestly every minute that Jeff continued to spent on his feet was making the idea of going back to sleep sound better and better.

". . . Yeah, okay," he conceded, because even if he still couldn't sleep, at least he wouldn't have to be in the same room with Parse much longer. That'd have to help. "Where's the bleach?"

Parse waved him off. "Get it when you're up. It's not Nevada, we don't have ants."

Jeff's mom would skin him if she found out about his bad manners, but Jeff told himself that maybe this was an exceptional-enough circumstance. He pushed away from the counter. "All right."

Parse gave him a thumbs up and took another drink of orange juice.

Jeff detoured into the bathroom to wash the lingering egg off his hands. He could've just done it at the kitchen sink, except for how the kitchen was where Parse was, so no he couldn't actually.

When he went back to the spare bedroom, Parse was inside, standing by Jeff's suitcase and looking up at the fan.

"I forgot how damn loud that is," Parse said, hands in his pockets. "You wanna sleep in my room?"

Ha. Haha. Haha ha hahaha Jesus fucking Christ, did Jeff die last night and now he was stuck living out some personal sexual frustration hell? Was he about to start some Groundhog Day shit?

Jeff knew that thinking he was having a mental breakdown was probably hyperbolic, but he didn't know what else to call this feeling. 'The crippling guilt of multiple years of gross fantasies about a teammate and friend finally coming home to roost'? Bad metaphor, but it still had a ring to it.

"Nah," he said nowhere near suave enough. "It's fine. Thanks."

"All right," Parse agreed, surprisingly easy. He turned away from the suitcase and started for the door, and Jeff quit standing in the middle of it like a weirdo and got out of his way. "I've gotta run some errands. See ya later."

"Yup," Jeff said articulately.

He really shouldn't be just straight-up crashing inside his host's house while Parse had to leave it to do other shit because he'd had pre-existing plans. But at the same time, Jeff just wanted to fall face-first on one of the air mattresses. He was so tired his head ached. "See ya."  
  
  
He woke up a few hours later to an empty house.

Jeff packed the last of his stuff into his bag, planning to just go and text Parse goodbye after he was already on the road out of town. It was the act of an absolute coward, but he was past giving a damn at this point.

Except then he couldn't find his keys.

Jeff was sure they'd been in his suitcase, but he emptied the whole thing out and couldn't find them anywhere. He went through everywhere he could've possibly gone in the house, still couldn't find them, and began to seriously consider whether that living-in-a-personal-hell idea was a legitimate possibility.

He eventually quit searching to make coffee, scrub down the floor where he'd spilled his breakfast earlier--even though it looked cleaner than he remembered when he'd been wiping up the eggs--and put together some lunch from the remaining leftovers in Parse's fridge. He was washing his dishes when the back door opened.

"Yo," Parse said as he came in. He was wearing his workout clothes.

"Hey," Jeff replied, putting the coffee mug into the drying rack. "--Need help with anything?"

"Nah," Parse replied, shutting the door. "Feelin' better?"

"Yeah, just needed a nap," Jeff said, like a perpetual liar. Except it was kind of true? On the surface at least. "Hey, have you seen my keys?"

"Uh-uh," Parse answered, opening the fridge. "You check the backyard?"

"I know I didn't take 'em out there--" Jeff started, and then his brain finally caught up. He was still waiting for the coffee to kick in, but he wasn't so tired anymore that he didn't recognize when something was off about Parse's voice.

Mostly because Parse didn't pull pranks frequently enough to be any good at them. Or at least not good enough that he could make his voice believably casual, and not just fake-casual.

Jeff finished rinsing the soap from his hands, shut off the faucet and turned around, and leaned against the sink to stare at Parse.

Parse looked over a few moments later, pulling a water jug out of the fridge. He raised an eyebrow.

Jeff folded his arms and kept waiting.

Parse finally huffed out an annoyed breath and pulled Jeff's keys from his pocket before tossing them over.

" _Seriously?_ " Jeff demanded, catching them. Like, it made more sense now why Kent had been in the bedroom earlier pretending he'd been inspecting the ceiling fan, except it still didn't make sense because _come on_.

"You needed to get more sleep, not go driving off as soon as I'm gone because you're being weird as hell," Parse replied defensively.

Jeff kind of wished that hadn't been his plan, so he could be properly insulted. "You're the one who just stole my keys, Parse, you don't get to call me weird."

Parse exhaled hard through his teeth and picked up a cup from the drying rack, not looking at him.

"...Geez," Jeff finally muttered, because the deliberate silence was getting to him. He stuffed the keys into his pocket. "Look, just--don't do that again. I thought I'd lost them."

Parse made another irritated noise as he took a drink of water. "Then have some damn common sense already."

Jeff tightened his jaw. "Parse--"

"You said it yourself Jeff, your rep's not awesome either," Parse bit out, setting his cup down too hard on the counter as he finally turned to scowl at him. "I know you don't fuckin' pay attention to that shit, or care or whatever, but think about your goddamn optics once in a while. You can't just coast through your whole fuckin' life."

"Okay, fuck you," Jeff said flatly, because that one hit close to home. "Don't try to run my life, Parson."

"Then do what you want," Parse said coldly. "Head on out, whatever. I'm sick of you doing this shit every fuckin' time we--whatever. See you in September."

"What the fuck," Jeff replied, because he'd lost the plot of what was happening here. "Doing _what_ shit?"

"Leave," Parse snapped.

One of Jeff's bad habits that the Aces' coaches were still riding him about was his inconsistent impulse control, which was a very euphemistic way of saying that sometimes Jeff let his resentment at feeling talked down to or challenged override his common sense, and he did stupid shit in response.

Which was why he pulled his keys back out of his pocket and lobbed them out of the kitchen, as far down the hallway as he could.

"Answer the question, Parson," Jeff ordered. "You wanted me to stay, I'm fuckin' staying. Doing _what_ shit?"

Parse glared at him, jaw clenched.

Jeff folded his arms again and waited. If Parson wanted him gone, he could go get the keys and fucking bring them back to Jeff himself.

Parse turned his back on him like an asshole. Jeff kept waiting while Parse drained the rest of his water, and then dragged a hand through his hair.

Eventually, Parse snarled out a breath and pivoted sharply back around to chuck his cup into the sink.

It went right past Jeff before landing in there with a clang. Jeff dug his fingers into his arms and refused to flinch or be intimidated.

" **This** shit!" Parse spit out, waving a hand at Jeff. He was almost yelling; and the part of Jeff that was still operating on common sense told him that he needed to just leave. He didn't know how to defuse this situation because he didn't know what the situation _was_ , so he needed to go before he or Parse did anything they'd regret.

"What the fuck does that _mean?_ " Jeff demanded, because the part of him that was still operating on common sense was currently in the minority.

"Every time I think we're cool, and then you fuckin', like--flip out and get weird, and start actin' skeeved about bein' around me again!" Parse said angrily, and oh.

Shit.

"I'm sick of this bullshit, Troy! Why'd you invite me to Toronto, and then you were cool comin' here, and now you can't fuckin' get out fast enough!" Parse banged his hand on the counter, still glaring at him. "What the fuck is your _problem?!_ "

Jeff pressed a hand over his face and made himself take a deep breath. And then several more.

Parse walked out.

A couple moments later, a door slammed. Jeff slumped against the sink and scrubbed his face with both hands. "God _dammit_."

He knew he'd been stupid, continually going back to hanging out with Parse even when he knew that if he couldn't keep this dumbass crush under control, then he should just keep their relationship professional and non-existent outside of the clubhouse. But he'd thought he'd only been fucking himself over by doing that.

He hadn't realized he'd been screwing up Parse with his back-and-forth bullshit, too. God ** _dammit_**.

Jeff went into the hallway and picked up his keys, which Parse had pettily kicked all the way to the end of the hall. Parse's bedroom door was shut, so Jeff stuck the keys in his pocket and leaned against the opposite wall, and made himself wait.

Parse opened his door again a little while later. He'd changed into jeans and a t-shirt; his eyes narrowed when he saw Jeff.

"I'm sorry," Jeff said, because if he only had a limited amount of time before Parse threw him out, he needed to get the most important stuff said first. "I wasn't trying to do that to you, Parse. It's not like--it's just. Some stupid bullshit I got going on. I wasn't tryin' to be an asshole to you. I'm sorry about that."

Parse studied him for several moments, before closing his eyes and exhaling slowly.

His face went blank soon after, which--wasn't a great sign, dammit.

Parse opened his eyes again and made an overly-casual dismissive gesture.

"I get it, man. It's fine," he said, shaking his head as he started past Jeff toward the bathroom. "Your rep's not gonna get better if you keep hanging out with me. You need to start focusing on that for real and quit hanging--"

"What the _**fuck**!?_" Jeff exploded in disbelief, startling Parse. "What the hell does that-- _no_ , **Christ** man, that's what you thought I was-- _fuck_ no, Kent!"

"Jesus," Parse said, taking a step back, and okay, okay, yeah, calm the hell down already Troy, holy shit how the fuck could Parse think he was that goddamn shallow?!

 _Fucking chill_ , Jeff told himself, dragging a hand through his hair as Parse stared at him, still a little wide-eyed. _You fucked this up, so calm the hell down and fix it_.

He took a deep, slow breath before focusing back on Parse.

"I don't give a shit what some gossiping assholes say about you, Parse," Jeff told him. "I don't give a shit what they say about me, they don't know me. They don't know you. I'm not avoiding you because I think you're bad for my _reputation_."

Okay, maybe he shouldn't've sneered out that last word so intensely. Jeff knew his external rep was tied to the internal politics of his career in multiple tangible ways; it was just that he didn't really give a damn about that right now, not when Parse was talking about himself like he was poison.

"Then why **are** you?" Parse demanded in frustration.

Which was a valid question, but also one Jeff couldn't answer honestly.

The silence started to stretch out again as Parse kept scowling at him, waiting. Finally, Jeff exhaled.

". . . I don't wanna talk about it," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was as close to honest as he could go.

He kept his eyes closed like a coward as he added, quiet, "I don't push you on personal stuff you don't wanna talk about, Parse. I'll quit being an asshole, I wasn't tryin' to do that, but just. . . . I don't want to talk about it."

Parse didn't reply.

Jeff eventually rubbed his face, and then dragged his hands back over his hair before making himself look over at Parse again.

Parse looked away. He shoved his hands into his pockets a moment later, hooking his thumbs out. "...Yeah, all right."

"Okay," Jeff said.

Parse kept staring down the hallway for another moment. But then he dropped his shoulders, and huffed. "Anyway.

"I gotta head out to my parents'," he said, still not quite looking at Jeff's face.

"Yeah," Jeff agreed. "I should hit the road."

"Okay." Parse hesitated for another second, and then clapped him on the shoulder as he turned aside, toward the bathroom. "See you at scrim."

Jeff wavered for a second, because he knew what he knew he ought to do, which was go get his bag and leave, and what he wanted to do, which was not leave while things still felt fucked up and jagged between him and Parse.

Parse was almost in the bathroom when Jeff asked, "You still going to conditioning camp in Toronto?"

Parse paused, hand on the doorknob. "...Yeah."

"Maybe we could hang out then," Jeff said. "If the schedules work out."

". . . Yeah, maybe," Parse said after the absolute longest moment of silence in Jeff's entire life. "I'll look at mine."

"Cool," Jeff replied. "...All right. See ya."

Parse nodded without looking back and stepped into the bathroom, shutting the door.

Jeff got his suitcase and headed out.  
  
  
He spent approximately two hours of the drive back home intermittently screaming in exhaustion.


	3. ...that you love me, baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quarantine-fueled adrenaline that somehow convinced me I could cram an approximately decade-spanning story into two (and then three...) chapters has been proven absurd, so I'm hoping that chopping up years 2011-2017~ into five parts means that this new estimated seven-chapter count won't be yet another lie. We'll find out together!  
> ~~~  
>   
> 

The Aces made Jeff a rotating alternate captain over the summer.

PR organized a phone interview with the Review-Journal's beat reporter and a call-in interview with the main sports radio station. Jeff spent about fifteen minutes on each talking about how he was looking forward to the coming season, how it was so cool to be trusted with this level of responsibility and how he was going to work hard to live up to it, while resignedly thinking _nooooooooooo_.

Parse texted him a couple days later: _Good interview on getting the A._

_You almost sounded like you didn't want to burn it off your jersey_

_Almost_

Jeff scowled at his phone and sent several immature emojis in response. _Why do you listen to PR interviews? How much free time do you have_

Parse ignored that. _Be in Vegas a week before scrim_ he sent. _I'm having all the alts over for dinner on the 25th. 5 pm_

 _All right_ Jeff agreed, since he was stuck with this role now. _You sure your place can fit five people?_

 _You live in the same building as me, Swoops. Try harder._ he replied, which would be a fair response except for how it ignored that a huge chunk of Parse's living room was eaten up by a pool table that Jeff had almost instantly learned to never, ever challenge him at.

Parse added _If you're in earlier than that, come do speed drills with me and Scraps. We got the north rink at the ice center from 6-8 am all week_

"Seriously, how were you surprised they made you captain, you workaholic," Jeff asked his phone tiredly, before replying _Ok_

He wasn't keen about this alt captain promotion, especially since PR had flooded his early-season schedule with a bunch of photoshoots and video promos and told him to come in for a media training refresher before the fan events started. But at least it meant Parse was talking to him again.

Okay, Parse hadn't **stopped** talking to him, not exactly. But there'd been a lot more radio silence between them since Parse's birthday party. The last texts above these were from almost a month ago, when Parse had come by Jeff's parents' place for dinner.

Parse had been charming during the meal, polite but comfortable with Jeff's parents and exceedingly patient with his little brother Sean's current hyperfixation on Portal 2. But he'd left soon after, citing a meeting with his agent the next morning before conditioning camp kicked off the following day. Jeff'd to fly out tomorrow to his own camp, so it wasn't like he could say anything.

And okay, during conditioning camp nobody really had the time or energy to hang out with anyone who wasn't right there at camp with them. And sure, Parse'd had endorsement stuff to do afterward that ate up more of his time; and he'd also apparently gone by the new draftees' training camp during the summer to chat with the Aces' prospects, because as far as Jeff could tell Parse didn't seem to have a good idea of the difference between "team captain" and "GM."

And yeah, it wasn't like Jeff had aggressively tried to keep talking to him.

But still. A few weeks' gap was really obvious when they'd been talking every few days until that weekend.

Jeff sighed and reminded himself that it was his own damn fault.

He thumbed out of his messages and called the airline to get his flight back to Vegas moved up by two weeks.

*

At training camp, Scrappy was put consistently on Jeff's left wing almost immediately.

But the coaches must've been paying attention to scrim, and to the speed drills Jeff and Scrappy and Parse had been doing on their own time even before that. Because by preseason, Parse was getting assigned to their right wing more frequently.

*

The Aces had a lousy start to the season.

They lost seven of their first eleven games--including the home opener, and their first game against Toronto when the Maple Leafs came to Vegas, which every single friend Jeff had chirped him for because Jeff was exclusively friends with assholes and he told them all that.

Parse had set up weekly working lunches with the leadership group at the beginning of preseason, where the guys were supposed to discuss potential problems and other things that weren't working on the ice or in the dressing room. But now he made them biweekly.

Jeff half-resented the loss of even _more_ of his minimal remaining personal time, but he had to respect Parse's intense dedication to creating a winning team this season and to holding the Aces' leadership group up to its name. Or at least grudgingly respect it. Not that he'd admit that to Parse, except under duress.

But still, it was impressive that Parse could successfully get eight guys together in the same place twice a week during their free time at the start of the season, when the majority of them were drowning in media and fan work. Like, there was dedication, and then there was actively wrangling seven other alpha males into doing what you wanted instead of being a sane person who left that work to the coaches since it was literally part of their job description.

But Parse was good at getting people to like him when he wanted. And he did kinda have the deck stacked in his favor.

The two non-alt guys in the leadership group were both veteran players who'd been signed to the Aces to provide short-term experience and stability while the team was being rebuilt around a younger core. So they already knew the score.

And their main goalie had made it clear he was willing to do whatever it took to get this team into shape, because currently Boxy didn't trust any of them to put enough pucks in the other teams' nets to get them into the playoffs--and if anybody at the table had a problem with that assessment, they could go get a hat trick before he was willing to entertain their dissenting opinion.

"This is why they don't put goalies in the leadership group," Crosser had said dryly in response. Boxy'd flipped him off with both hands while taking another bite of his sandwich.

The other younger guy who'd been assigned an A was painfully obvious about wanting to prove himself, so it didn't surprise Jeff that Holler was on board with reorganizing his schedule every week. He griped to Jeff about it sometimes, but it was casual venting and not an early sign of a developing problem.

The two older players who'd also been named alts had a vested interest in getting a Cup before they had to retire, even if that meant having to do more leadership work than Jeff thought was normal for an NHL team. It probably helped that Parse had made it clear he wanted their honest opinions, even if that opinion was Crosser telling Parse to quit snow-showering the Thrashers' goalie in order to agitate the rest of Atlanta's players before one of their d-men knocked out half the kid's teeth.

(Crosser was the rotating alt who'd been assigned to away games along with Jeff. Jeff liked him.)

Aaaaaaaand then there Jeff, who'd just straight-up been roped into going along with Parse's bullshit.

 _We're getting sandwiches at Dots after practice Wednesday_ Parse had sent him one morning during camp, with literally no other information. Per usual.

 _Their sandwiches are gross I don't know why you and Scraps like them_ Jeff had replied, because he was going to die on that hill. _Also that's not how you ask if I've got free time Parse_

 _This is for the leadership group_ Parse'd sent. _I wanna get all the guys together before preseason_

In hindsight, Jeff should've known the implication that this'd be a one-time thing was a lie and a trap. He added the lunch to his calendar and sent _Alright but you still suck at asking favors_

 _I don't have to ask, you're my alt. This is your job_ Parse had replied.

Jeff'd still been pinching the bridge of his nose when Parse added _See ya there_

 _You know you're a dick_ Jeff had sent in exasperation.

 _I also know you already put it in your calendar._ Parse'd replied. _I'm so proud Swoops, I'll make a leader outta you yet_

"One of these days, you little shit!!" Jeff had threatened his phone-as-proxy-for-Parse pointlessly, before sending a middle finger emoji.

*

Despite the Aces' incredibly disappointing start to the season, by late October the team finally began hitting its stride as guys got comfortable with the coach's system and their lineys.

*

Jeff went on a goal-scoring streak for five games before it got interrupted. Three games later, he started another goal streak that lasted seven games before the damn Bruins shut him down.

"I mean, yeah, it sucks a little, but I'm glad we still won," Jeff agreed in his interview afterward. "I wish I could've done more for the rest of the boys, but," he shrugged. "It's like, well, it's Tuukka Rask. You better go two hundred percent minimum against him, eh?

"Man, having to compliment a goalie is like getting teeth pulled," Jeff added, making the reporter chuckle faintly. "Can someone ask another question?"  
  
  
"Get a ten-game streak and I'll start being impressed," Parse told him the next morning while they were warming up for practice, because Jeff was _exclusively_ friends with assholes.

To the side, Scrappy shook his head. He was the sole exception to Jeff's bad taste in friends.

"Stop sending me friggin' saucer passes and I'll get more in," Jeff grumbled, because Parse's new favorite trick in games was to bank the puck off the glass and just **trust** that Jeff would get to it in time and Scrappy would keep any opposing players from interfering with him. It was working an absurdly high percent of the time, but it was still some adrenaline-spiking bullshit. "Yeah, yeah, 'keeps it out of other guys' hands' I know, but you can't rely on chaos."

"Chaos," Parse said disparagingly. "It's _basic_ physics."

"One of these days people are gonna figure out there's a math genius under that fuckboy act, Parson," Jeff warned ominously.

Parse snorted. "Have you seen how many parties I get photographed at? Nobody'll ever believe it."

"Okay I was joking, are you seriously--" Jeff started, and then Parse skated off. "Hey!"

"Stop talkin' and start tryin' to catch up!" Parse called back.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Jeff said wearily, as Scrappy snickered next to him. "That brat's gonna kill me, seriously. You're my witness."

"You keep giving him openings to chirp," Scrappy pointed out, shifting on the ice to stretch his other leg, and yeah okay it was true but Scraps still could've had some sympathy. 

*

During the previous season the Aces' doctor had eventually told Jeff to just test weekly for any curses, since his fortune charm made it impossible to catch them early.

It'd been about seven or eight days since he'd last gone to Andy's office, so Jeff walked in to get it over with. "Hey, Andy--"

The box over the doorway beeped once.

Andy looked up from his laptop, completely unsurprised. "Any symptoms at all?"

"I mean, my streak broke," Jeff answered, pulling out a seat by the desk while Andy picked up the phone. "But that was just Rask being a fuckin' mountain out to block me."

"If this had several days to accrue, it could've helped," Andy replied, hitting speaker as the phone rang. "I'm about to make you start checking every day, Jeff."

Jeff exhaled and slumped a little deeper into his chair. "Yeah, okay."

He was hardly the only guy on the team with a fortune charm, and he definitely wasn't the only one in the league with a fourth-tier one. GMs basically hounded their franchise faces to get one, given how much money was tied up in those guys--although you'd never get anybody in a front office to admit that it was anything but a player's own choice.

But according to Andy, a fourth-tier blessing charm that was inked on from infancy **was** pretty rare. Most families who invested that much money and power into their children didn't go on to turn them loose in the injury-rife, concussion-laden world of professional sports.

Andy'd had to reach out to a doctor who worked primarily with professional golfers to find somebody who had similar experience in dealing with a patient like Jeff. Which was an awful lot of trouble for a team doctor to go to for one lone player out of a whole roster's worth, which was why Jeff never argued with Andy about any of the testing.

"I can start doing that," he agreed. "It's just swinging by and stepping through the door, yeah?"

Andy nodded. "We'll figure out the portable checks for roadies--"

A receptionist answered the phone. "Meadows Blessing Center and Imprecation Resolutions, how can I help you?"

"Hi, Bhri," Andy said. "It's Dr. DeFranks, with the Aces. Jeff Troy's been cursed again."

"I mean, you don't have to say it like that," Jeff protested. "I'm right here."

"I said it like that _because_ you're right here," Andy replied dryly, as Bhri chuckled. "It's a 1C, but it could've been on him for several days already."

"Okay," she said. "Let me put you on hold and see if Jeremiah's back from lunch."

*

In January, Jeff started another goal-scoring streak that lasted for nine games until he was shut down by the goddamn Habs: the current worst team in the Eastern conference, which just added insult to injury.  
  
  
"Got so close to impressing me and then you wiffed it," Parse said casually as they were walking from the bus to the hotel; and luck was on Jeff's side because Parse couldn't escape into the building before Jeff managed to headlock him and drag him over to the decorative shrubbery and shove a handful of snow down the back of his coat.

"You motherfucker," Parse growled, shaking out his coat while the rest of the team headed inside around them, occasionally chirping him or Jeff.

Jeff scooped another handful of snow off the shrub and started packing it into a ball. "Fuckin' keep it up, Parson. I dare you."

Parse just rolled his eyes and started for the doors, brushing the last of the snow off the inside of his coat.

Scrappy patted Parse on the wet stain on the back of his suit jacket as he passed by. "Your fault, Parser."

"Thanks, Scraps," Parse drawled while Jeff snickered and hung on to the snowball, just in case. Parse always tried to get the last word if he could.

*

In February, Jeff got his first career hat trick.

It was against the Ducks, who weren't doing too hot this season, but Jeff was going to take the victory anyway. He'd gotten the hattie in a back-to-back game during a California roadie, despite playing against the Kings just last night and the Sharks in a matinee two days before that. Anaheim wasn't doing great this year, but L.A. and San Jose were.

The coaches looked the other way when Jeff ordered a beer during the post-game team meal, and in turn Jeff ignored the guys who were playing keep-away across the tables with his commemorative puck. Frankly, he was too wired to give a damn.

"Hey, so," Jeff grinned across his table at their goalie. "I got a hat trick, so now do I get a disagreeing opinion on how we can put enough pucks in the net to make playoffs?"

Boxy raised one eyebrow at him as he chewed his fries.

Jeff grinned wider. "You literally said if any of us wanted to argue, we had to get--"

"Fuck right off with that," Boxy replied. "I had to make way too many saves tonight to put up with you using excess adverbs 'cause your character's extrapolated from one lone canon conversation. You didn't even get on-panel for it, Swoops," he said derisively. "Tell the d-men to get their shit together in our end before trying to convince me we're going all the way."

Goalies were so fucking weird. Jeff cackled and shook his head. "C'mon, Boxy. Look how far we've come since that garbage start, eh? Have some faith already."

Boxy sighed and reached for his water glass. "Of course we're going to the playoffs. You can extrapolate the year the Aces win the Cup from one conversation and a tweet," he replied. "But I like to pretend I haven't been living story variations over and over for the sake of my mental health."

Jeff paused and looked at him seriously, because there was 'goalies were weird' and then there was...whatever this was. "You, uh. Doing okay?"

Boxy snorted and gave him an amused look as he took a drink of water. "I'm the last person on this band of dumbasses you need to worry about, Swoops. But thanks."

"Okay..." Jeff said slowly. "But uh, this seems a little more than normal goalie-weird."

"Rude," Boxy said dryly.

Jeff shrugged it off. "Just saying. If you wanna talk or something--"

"Then I'll see the team therapist," Boxy replied. "Not you, the guy who actively avoids doing excess emotional labor for teammates because you have healthier boundaries than our damn fool captain over there."

Jeff couldn't help snickering at that.

"Fair enough," he agreed, since there wasn't really anything in that statement he could argue with. "...Still, though. If you wanna talk, I'm listening."

"I know," Boxy said with a casual gesture. "Having good boundaries doesn't mean you don't care about us. But I'm fine. This is nowhere near the weirdest universe we've done," he added, picking up the last of his fries. "Ask me some time about the friggin' dream one that's the ur-text for this whole universe."

"Okay, I know what I just said, but I don't think I'm drunk enough for this conversation anymore," Jeff replied, because he kinda believed in parallel universes in theory, but this was starting to drift into some weirdass Scientology shit. Did Scientology have parallel universes?

Boxy snickered. "You aren't," he agreed, before adding, "Scraps and Holler are gonna break a vase with your puck soon if you don't do something about them."

Jeff shook his head and drained the rest of his beer. "You gotta get smoother at switching topics, Boxy," he told him.

Boxy half-smiled. "The upside of metatextual omniscience is," he replied, pointing further down the room, "I really don't."

There was a crash near the wall.

"Son of a bitch," Jeff said wearily, looking over at where Scrappy and Holler had deer-in-headlights expressions a couple feet from a freshly-broken decorative vase. "Who threw that?"

Holler pointed at Scrappy, who proceeded to look even more guilty.

Over at another table, Parse rubbed his mouth with a napkin. "It was _your_ puck that broke it, so--"

"Shut your entire face Parson, I'm not paying for that," Jeff interrupted, pointing at him without looking over. Parse made a mock-derisive noise. "Scraps, you should at least point back at him. Just for like, appearances' sake."

Scrappy rubbed the back of his head. "But--"

"Holland, you took the puck off my table in the first place, you're paying for the vase," Jeff interrupted, before Scrappy could completely incriminate himself. He looked over at their fines master. "What's the fine for general dipshittery?"

"Fifty bucks and thirty minutes extra core work," Crosser replied without missing a beat, even though Jeff was almost certain 'general dipshittery' was not an actual fine on the list. But then, he hadn't looked at it since September.

"This is nepotism!" Holler protested. "You're letting him off because he's your bro. _Nebrotism!_ "

"What the fuck even," Jeff said, while a couple guys cracked up.

Jeff sighed and shoved the last of his steak into his mouth before pushing out of his chair. On the other side of the table, Boxy was smirking faintly.

"I'm not buying that you're psychic or whatever," Jeff told him, because in hindsight he probably should've expected something like this to happen.

Boxy snorted. "Of course not," he replied. "It's worse than that. I'd kill to blank slate it like Parse does."

"Uuuugh," Jeff muttered, before leaving for the front desk to find out what this was going to cost. Scrappy and Holler followed at his order, though Holler griped the whole way.  
  
  
Scrappy insisted on paying the full cost of the broken vase, because he was too honest for his own good. Jeff told Holler he wasn't getting out of the fine and then headed back to his own room.

He knew he needed to go to sleep. It was almost one a.m., and they had to fly down to Phoenix after breakfast tomorrow. Their final roadie game against the Coyotes was the day after that. But he was still way too amped on adrenaline.

It was too late for any of his friends to be up to text or talk. Jeff dicked around for a while on his private Twitter and Insta accounts, but the only one around was Mitch, who was busy flipping out over his senior thesis. He liked the encouraging comment Jeff sent but didn't reply, so Jeff figured he needed to work and left him alone. 

He finally shoved his phone into his suitcase and sprawled on the bed, channel-flipping for a while until lying still got insufferable. He ordered a second beer through room service and paid in cash so he wouldn't have to listen to HR gripe at him about extra expenses.

It was all right, but halfway through Jeff was bored of it and getting tired, even though he was still too wired to sleep.

He'd been ignoring the obvious relaxation aid of just jerking off. But once it was pushing two a.m. and he knew he was gonna be even more caffeine-addicted than usual at breakfast, Jeff decided screw it, holding out was dumb.

He left the lukewarm beer in the bathroom, brushed his teeth and put his retainer in, and went back to bed, kicking off his underwear as he got in. Jeff settled comfortably and got a hand on his dick, and tried to decide on a serviceable fantasy.

That lasted for maybe two minutes before he gave in again, and went with the fantasy he actually wanted.

The knock on his door was so quiet that if Jeff hadn't been half-expecting it, he might've missed it. He dragged on a pair of sweatpants and went to answer.

Scrappy was outside, still in his full suit since he almost always stuck to the roadie dress code rules. Even though the front office tended to let casualer wear slide if guys were just moving around inside the hotel.

Jeff held the door open for him, and decided to reverse time and make it a lot closer when they'd finished eating. Even if it was a fantasy, he didn't want to make Scrappy deal with a lack of sleep tomorrow morning too. "Hey, Scraps."

"Hey," Scrappy said, coming inside. Jeff shut the door behind him and flipped the privacy lock.

"You really should've made Holler pay for that vase," Jeff said, as Scrappy turned around to face him.

He slid his hands into his pockets and shrugged. "Naw. I broke it."

Jeff shook his head, smiling as he did so Scrappy would know it wasn't really a big deal. "Sure, but he's the one who needs to learn to grow up a little more. Some consequences'll be good for him."

"You just think that because he keeps getting you with pranks," Scrappy pointed out, which was okay, yeah, true. Jeff snorted.

"Fair," he agreed.

Then, since he had a good guess why Scrappy'd come by so late, Jeff gave the small talk a little push in the right direction. "Still. You had an assist on one of my goals and he didn't. Take advantage of it, eh?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "The world won't end if you're a little bit of a bully sometimes."

"Naw," Scrappy replied, lifting his shoulders again. Jeff chuckled and shook his head.

A moment later, Scrappy caught his gaze. "Good game today, Jeff."

"Yeah?" he said, lifting the corner of his mouth.

And then--because Scrappy did best when he was given clear expectations--Jeff added, "You gonna reward me for it?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

Jeff smiled and stepped closer to kiss him.

Scrappy relaxed into it after a brief hesitation, but Jeff figured that was just Scraps reminding himself that they didn't have to worry about being caught tonight.

They'd messed around together during a different roadie a few months ago when they'd been assigned to the same room; but outside of that one time, road trips basically made hooking up impossible unless they all met in Parse's room.

Nobody on the team got a solo hotel room except for the couple veteran players who'd had negotiating power and Parse, since he was both captain and permanently at the top of the Aces' points list. The new contract between the players' union and the league was supposed to require teams to start giving guys individual rooms on roadies, but so far negotiations weren't going great.

But when Jeff began his third goal-scoring streak, HR'd started quietly giving him his own room. With the streak now over, Jeff figured he'd be stuck with a roommate again soon; but until that happened, he was basking in the freedom to keep watching whatever television channel he wanted, and always having the bathroom free, and being able to have one of his partners over.

For a little while. Scrappy was still stuck with a roommate, so he'd have to leave soon before his roomie started wondering where he'd gone. Which meant Jeff better take advantage of this while he could.

He pulled back after another kiss and started to reflexively run a hand over Scrappy's hair before catching himself. He shouldn't mess it up--Scraps' roommate might notice and wonder what'd happened.

"Cool," Jeff said, grinning. He used his arm around Scrappy's waist to pull him closer, pressing a thigh against Scrappy's own. Jeff grinned wider as he felt how Scraps' dick was already chubbed up. "Whatcha gonna give me?"

Scrappy swallowed but kept meeting his gaze. "Whatever you want."

Jeff's fingers tightened involuntarily, even though he'd more-than-half-expected that answer.

Dimitri had said it to him once, months ago, and Jeff had reflexively told him that he shouldn't offer that: it meant Dimitri was telling somebody they could do anything they wanted to him.

After that, Dimitri had started saying it to Jeff deliberately.

It was kind of embarrassing how easy it was to turn him on--god knew Kent was never gonna stop chirping him about it--but at the same time, Jeff wasn't complaining that Dimitri knew what he liked and wanted to do it for him. Especially when it still kind of floored him that Dimitri really _did_ want him like this.

He cupped a hand against Dimitri's neck and rubbed his thumb along his jaw. "Yeah? You'll do anything I tell you?"

Dimitri's face got a little redder, but he nodded. "Yeah."

"Cool," Jeff smiled, quiet and lower, before kissing him again.

He bit Dimitri's lower lip a couple breaths later--not too hard, not enough to break the skin or leave a mark for long. Just enough to make Dimitri shiver and grip his waist tighter.

Jeff hummed in approval and bit down again. Dimitri made a soft, stifled noise in the back of his throat.

He sounded good. He always sounded good like this; it made Jeff want to hear more.

He thought about shifting them around, backing Dimitri up against the wall and pinning him there, pushing a thigh between his legs and kissing him harder. Maybe biting him for real this time. Make it tougher for Dimitri to stay quiet.

He'd probably let Jeff do it. Dimitri let him do a lot of things.

Jeff pulled back with an exhale.

He ran his knuckles along the side of Dimitri's face instead, before sliding his hand down to hook a finger through his tie.

Jeff loosened it slightly. "Get undressed for me."

Dimitri shivered faintly and nodded.

He took off the tie, then paused to look around for somewhere to put it. Jeff held out his hand, and Dimitri gave it to him.

He laid the tie on the hotel desk and smoothed it as Dimitri shrugged out of his jacket. He handed that over as well when Jeff held out a hand again, and Jeff hung it over the back of the desk chair, making sure that it sat neatly enough it wouldn't wrinkle.

Dimitri continued stripping down like Jeff had asked him to, giving up all his clothing until he was naked. He waited while Jeff finished loosely folding his undershirt and boxers and set them on the desk near the tie and dress shirt.

Jeff turned and gave him a long once-over look. Dimitri swallowed and shifted on his feet slightly, but kept his hands at his sides.

He rested a hand on Dimitri's left thigh above a large, fading bruise from a few games back. "How's your leg?"

"Okay," Dimitri answered. "A little sore when I wake up, but that's it."

Good. That'd been a brutal check; Dimitri had been slow skating back to the bench after it. Jeff nodded and gave his thigh a brief squeeze. "Good."

He ran his hand up Dimitri's hip and along his lower belly, before curling it around his rising dick. Dimitri took a deep breath.

Jeff stroked him once, slow and loose. Dimitri flexed his fingers like he wasn't sure what to do with his hands just yet; Jeff smiled mischievously as he slid his hand back to the base of his dick. "Did you start getting hard just walking over here?"

Dimitri bit his lip and nodded.

He smiled a little wider and thumbed Dimitri's lip out of his teeth with his free hand. "I like that."

Dimitri shivered again. Jeff gave his cock a squeeze.

It made Dimitri's breath catch as he jerked hard, eyes clenching shut as he grabbed Jeff's shoulder for balance.

Jeff stroked him a few more times, intentionally moving a little harder and rougher than he knew Dimitri preferred. But Dimitri just gripped Jeff's waist as well and pressed his forehead to Jeff's shoulder, breathing raggedly. He flinched, but he didn't fight.

After all, he'd said that Jeff could do whatever he wanted to him; and Dimitri didn't say things he didn't mean.

Jeff exhaled again and eased his grip, changing to the rhythm he knew Dimitri liked best.

He ran his free hand along Dimitri's back too, until he felt the tension there fade as Dimitri realized that Jeff wasn't going to keep being cruel to him like that.

Soon after, Dimitri relaxed fully against him and began to rock forward into his strokes. Jeff breathed out through his teeth, then pressed a kiss against Dimitri's temple when he felt him hesitate at the sound.

It wasn't like it surprised Jeff that Dimitri and Kent responded differently with him. Of course they did: they were different people. Being surprised by that would be up there with being startled that snow was cold, or that putting a metal bowl in the microwave made it spark.

The thing that still threw Jeff a little whenever he had to switch mental gears between them was the _way_ they were different. It was such a change.

Kent liked to instigate, to provoke Jeff until he finally got fed up. He liked things rough, and he always pushed back hard because he expected Jeff to prove that he was worth giving up to, because Kent "Dictionary Definition of 'Trust Issues'" Parson did not give away power over himself lightly.

Jeff knew full well that Kent cared about him as a friend and a partner, and that he trusted him. He never questioned that. But Kent also wanted a partner who knew how to seduce him into surrendering, and he wanted it to feel like coercion.

It wasn't like all their sex was like that. But when they did play around that way, Kent expected Jeff to make it worth it. And Jeff prided himself on being pretty damn good at pulling Kent down to that point where he became willing to let himself be vulnerable. He liked doing it, and he liked getting it right for Kent, too.

But Dimitri was different, in a way that was hard for Jeff to articulate.

The lack of any play-fighting when they had sex was the obvious difference. That part was easy to understand: the longer Jeff knew Dimitri, the more he'd noticed that the other man heavily compartmentalized the role he was expected to play on the ice and the rest of his life.

The only time Jeff'd ever seen Dimitri go into his in-game headspace during his normal life was that one time he'd helped Jeff get a friend's things back from her ex, and the guy had been a real threatening, insulting asshole to Jeff during the process. Jeff literally could not think of a single other instance in the past three years.

The role Dimitri played in games and the guy he chose to be in every other aspect of his life were two very different people. So Jeff wasn't surprised that Dimitri didn't like to play around with behaviors he associated with a very specific part of his work--intimidation, force, violence--when he was having sex with people he cared for.

Jeff was pretty sure that was why Kent was always made certain that whenever Dimitri was physically aggressive with him during sex--when Dimitri did anything he might uncomfortably associate with his on-ice headspace--Kent reinforced that he didn't feel threatened, and that he really enjoyed it and he appreciated Dimitri for doing it for him.

Jeff was absolutely sure that was why Kent never pushed back against Dimitri the way he did with Jeff. Fighting Dimitri like that would for sure trigger a negative mental reaction, and Kent didn't want to do that to him.

(Although knowing that was still never going to stop Jeff from chirping Parse about being so unashamedly thirsty for dudes who could manhandle him.

Even when it made Parse threaten to throw him out of his apartment. Like, say, the time Jeff asked Parse if sending him a .gif of the game where Mashkov'd hauled him up one-handed would count as sexting, right before Jeff collapsed over the couch and spent about five minutes howling with laughter at the look on Parse's face.

Parse eventually dumped a cup of ice down Jeff's pajama pants to make him shut up, which was _unnecessary overkill_.)

But the part that was harder to describe was how Dimitri.... Jeff didn't know how to put it.

Dimitri wanted to be seduced, too. He wasn't vocal or blunt about it like Kent, but he responded so strongly to coaxing and praise, to verbal and physical affection, that he was just as clear about his needs as Kent in his own way.

The biggest contrast between them was that while Kent wanted to be pulled down into the headspace where he was finally willing to give up control to Jeff, Dimitri came to Jeff like he was already almost there. Jeff had to do so little work to get Dimitri into that mindset that him and Kent being different people just didn't seem like a good enough explanation.

If Jeff was being honest, the amount of trust Dimitri gave him felt overwhelming sometimes. It scared him a little.

Dimitri didn't push back like Kent did. He didn't fight, he didn't really argue, he didn't even tend to speak up if something was uncomfortable but he thought he could push through it. Jeff'd had to get really good, really fast, at reading Dimitri's body language and the physical cues that he reflexively tried to push down.

Dimitri chose to play a role on the ice that was significantly different from his personality because he knew it was a good way to be useful to the Aces, and the best way to be considered valuable by the coaches and the GM. He went into games determined to do what he had to for any teammate, but especially for his own line: for Kent and Jeff.

He came into sex with a similar instinct. Dimitri wanted to do whatever he felt he had to for Kent and Jeff, like he subconsciously felt that that was the best way to be considered valuable to them. Jeff was working on getting that lie out of Dimitri's head, but it was a process.

That was fine. He didn't care how long it took, but Jeff wanted that belief gone. Not only because it wasn't true, but also because it was part of the reason why Dimitri's trust scared him.

Because down in the part of himself that he was still struggling to make full peace with, Jeff could easily see how simple it'd be to exploit it.

There was nothing to it. Dimitri liked feeling like he was making Jeff happy; he was more unsure without clear expectations; he had a long track record of working incredibly hard to meet internal and external expectations, even when the external ones had set him up to fail; and he was acutely responsive to praise and affection.

It was like a fucking checklist for someone vulnerable to being manipulated by an unscrupulous asshole.

It made Jeff think of that boiling a frog metaphor: all he'd have to do was be gentle, take it slow, ease Dimitri into doing more and more for him, and then praise him every time Dimitri pushed down his discomfort in favor of his desire to please Jeff, rewarding him with affection afterward every time that Dimitri let him hurt him a little more. Pretty soon, he'd probably be able to convince Dimitri to let him do almost anything to him.

It could take months, because he'd have to be careful about keeping Dimitri just uncomfortable enough about what he 'allowed' Jeff to do to him that he wouldn't talk to anybody else, no matter how close they were to him. If Parse ever found out, Jeff knew he'd do everything possible to ruin his career and maybe cut his breaks too.

But it'd still be easy. Dimitri practically handed him the opening, trusting him so much.

(Jeff eventually picked up a habit of listening to true crime podcasts, after a teammate's wife set him up on a blind date with a friend of hers. Pamela had been creating one of those podcasts with some friends, so Jeff had subscribed and listened to it, even though they never got further than publishing a few episodes. He and Pamela didn't last long, either; they went on a few dates, and Jeff took her to the Aces' 2015 Halloween party, but by early November they'd agreed it wasn't working out.

But he kept finding and listening to other podcasts in the genre, because some of the crimes in them were so fucked up that Jeff figured they were a good reminder of the kind of person he absolutely didn't want to be.

The first time he heard a podcast host describe "grooming," Jeff yanked out his earbuds so fast that he accidentally threw his phone down the plane aisle, sending it skittering up toward the card tables.

Parse leaned out from one of them and raised an eyebrow. "Dude."

"It slipped," Jeff managed.

Parse looked down at the phone, and then back up at Jeff, several rows away.

"My hands are wet," Jeff replied, because he wasn't great at lying under both pressure and panic and also when he kinda felt like hyperventilating just to go for the trifecta.

"With _what?_ " Parse asked, raising the eyebrow higher.

"Hand sanitizer," Jeff said, because he couldn't immediately think of anything else that wasn't gross. "Throw my friggin' phone back already, Parse."

"I'll wait 'til it's dry first," Parse replied, shifting back to the card game, and it was probably for the best that Jeff's earbuds had gone sailing down the aisle with his phone because he was real tempted to chuck them at that little shit right now.

Scrappy leaned into the aisle and snagged his phone, and then wrapped the earbuds' cord around it before tossing it back to him.

It hit Jeff in the chest and he had to fumble to grab it before it fell to the floor, because it was going to be a couple hours before he could bring himself to look at Scrappy again.)

It'd be easy. So easy that Jeff was a little afraid he might start doing it to Dimitri without even thinking.

Which was up there on the paranoid scale, even for him. But still. He didn't want to wreck things with Dimitri. He didn't want to hurt him.

Okay, that obviously wasn't true; Jeff liked what he liked. But he didn't want to hurt Dimitri mentally, or emotionally.

He was a little scared of how much Dimitri trusted him. But ultimately, it just reinforced Jeff's desire not to betray that faith.

He pulled his hand away from Dimitri's cock. Dimitri made a disappointed sound before quickly stifling it, and Jeff took a step back. He curled a finger under Dimitri's chin, tilting his head up enough to kiss him again briefly. "I'm really glad you came tonight."

Dimitri blinked, looking like he was still trying to get his full train of thought back on track after it'd been derailed by Jeff's hand on his cock. "I didn't."

\--Okay, well, he hadn't been going for that pun, but it was still pretty good. Jeff snickered and wrapped an arm around Dimitri's shoulders, turning him toward the far bed. "C'mon."

Dimitri went. When Jeff reached the narrow gap between the double beds he pulled his arm away, sliding it over Dimitri's shoulders and back as he stepped into the space. Dimitri paused at the opening.

Jeff stripped the comforter off the bed and laid it over the thin carpet, and then fished through the pile of excess pillows he'd chucked onto the bed until he found the firmest one. He sat down on the mattress's edge and dropped the pillow between his feet before gesturing to Dimitri. "C'mere."

He came over and knelt down. Jeff spread his legs a little wider around him and asked, "That good? You want a second pillow?"

Dimitri shifted on his knees for a little bit, testing, and then shook his head. "Naw."

"Okay," he said. Jeff cupped the side of Dimitri's face, and rubbed his thumb against Dimitri's bottom lip. "I'd like you to suck me off."

"Okay," Dimitri agreed.

Jeff grinned a little and rocked his hips up, just enough to show that he wanted Dimitri to pull his sweats off himself. "Gimme another assist, eh?"

Dimitri snorted at what even Jeff would admit was a lame joke, but he didn't call him out on it. He just started working Jeff's sweatpants off. Sometimes the differences between Dimitri and Kent were really nice.

Jeff braced a hand on the bed and arched his hips for a couple seconds so Dimitri could pull the sweats down. When Jeff told him to take them off completely, Dimitri cupped the back of his calves one at a time and lifted them enough to pull the pant legs loose, which looked as nice as it felt.

Jeff thought about stroking his cock while Dimitri worked. But he wanted to stay comfortably balanced, and he liked the way Dimitri's mouth looked with Jeff's thumb still pressing down on his lower lip, pulling it away from his teeth slightly.

It took Dimitri a little while to get Jeff's sweats loose, because he was trying to do it without moving his head too much and accidentally dislodging Jeff's thumb. He was always so good to him, in so many little ways.

"Toss 'em on the other bed," Jeff said, once Dimitri had gotten them free. Dimitri folded the sweats messily and reached behind him to push them up onto the other mattress.

When he was done, Jeff settled his weight more comfortably and pressed his thumb a little harder against Dimitri's lip. "You okay with deepthroating?"

Dimitri swallowed and nodded. "Yeah."

"Yeah?" Jeff asked, smiling a little. "You been practicing with Kenny?"

Dimitri reddened again, and glanced down before nodding.

He looked good. He always looked good like this; it was why Jeff liked to tease him. Dimitri wore his embarrassment so openly.

But he didn't want Dimitri to slide into feeling humiliated, so teasing him was always a fine line. Jeff decided to lay off for a while.

"Cool," he said warmly, pulling down on Dimitri's lip until his thumb was resting on the soft, wet underside. "Show me what you've been practicing, yeah?"

Dimitri swallowed harder and nodded again, before wrapping a hand around Jeff's cock. Jeff shifted his thumb out of the way as he leaned forward.

Dimitri pushed himself too hard at first, trying to take down Jeff's cock too quickly and gagging himself slightly in result, so Jeff cupped his face and urged him back. Dimitri resisted a little at first--he didn't like to admit failure, he'd always force himself to try harder if Jeff let him--so Jeff put real pressure into it.

Dimitri quit resisting then and sat back, letting Jeff's cock slip out of his mouth. Jeff relaxed his grip and ran a hand over Dimitri's hair.

"Easy, Scraps," he said. "Go slower. Don't choke yourself."

Dimitri wiped a hand over his mouth and looked up at him. "You like that."

"Yeah," Jeff agreed, because there was no reason to lie. Dimitri knew what he liked. "But you don't, eh?"

Dimitri looked down and tightened his jaw slightly, unwilling to admit it. He didn't like feeling like he'd failed.

Jeff rubbed a thumb gently along his eyebrow. "It's cool if you don't like it," he promised. "This isn't fun unless it's fun for both of us, remember?"

Dimitri took a slow breath before finally nodding. "Yeah."

Jeff cupped his chin and lifted his head slightly, until Dimitri looked up at him again. "And it's not fun for me if I know you don't feel good," he reminded. "Okay?"

Dimitri nodded again. "Yeah."

Jeff smiled. "Good."

Then he sat back, bracing himself on an arm again, and rubbed his thumb along Dimitri's jaw. "I feel like I've been runnin' on adrenaline all night, Scraps," Jeff told him. "I wanna settle down. I want things slow tonight. Okay?"

Dimitri studied his face, because Jeff hadn't really been subtle about handing him that out. But in Jeff's defense, it was very late, and anyway it was true.

He felt like he'd been running overclocked ever since the start of third period, when he'd made that second goal and then Kent and Dimitri and the Aces' d-men all started sending him more and more passes to try and get him the hat trick, while the Ducks got physically brutal about trying to shut him down. It'd be nice to finally get his equilibrium back.

And Dimitri was always good at helping him do that. It was another thing Jeff couldn't really articulate, but when he and Dimitri had the kind of sex like they were tonight, it was...quieter, mentally, somehow. He made Jeff feel grounded, made it easy for him to settle down and focus.

When he and Dimitri had sex like tonight, it was like everything else going on in the world outside of their room faded out. The only important thing was Dimitri: enjoying him, and reading his tells to make sure that he was doing good too.

Which made it easy for Jeff to shrug all the external mess of life out of his head for a while, and just focus his attention on Dimitri. It felt...relaxing? Or peaceful? Even though it was probably kinda weird to think about things like this as peaceful.

Whatever, trying to figure all that out was a distraction. Right now, Jeff wanted to focus.

"We've got all night, Dima," he said, running his hand through Dimitri's hair again. "I wanna enjoy my reward, eh?"

They had as much time as they wanted. Screw Dimitri's roommate, Jeff would just say they fell asleep watching a movie or something. Everybody on the team knew they were friends and assumed they were straight. It'd be fine.

"Yeah," Dimitri agreed. "Okay."

"Cool," Jeff smiled, resting his hand on the back of Dimitri's neck.

This time Dimitri went at the pace he needed, working Jeff's cock into his mouth more slowly and pulling back a couple times in order to adjust before pushing further.

"There you go," Jeff murmured, once Dimitri had taken him deep enough that his cock was pressing against the back of his throat. Dimitri had coughed and tensed up a little at the feeling, so Jeff rubbed his palm along his back. "Relax your throat, Dima. You're doing good."

Dimitri did it a couple moments later, taking a long breath through his nose before sliding Jeff's cock in further. He dropped his hand away from the base and tried to push farther, before pausing with another stifled noise.

"So good," Jeff told him, digging his fingers into the sheet to hold his hips still. "Open your jaw a little more."

Dimitri pulled back and rubbed the spit off his chin with a forearm before working his jaw. Jeff waited, running a hand over Dimitri's hair slowly as he did. He'd accidentally wrecked the product in it earlier, so there was no reason to stop now. Especially since Dimitri looked good with his hair mussed up from sex. He could fix it in the bathroom afterward; Jeff liked the thought of Dimitri wearing his own gel back to his hotel room.

Dimitri took another long breath, and began sucking his cock again. Jeff rested a hand on his neck, rubbing his thumb absently against the nape.

Dimitri managed to take him down almost all the way this try, but he started to struggle near the end. He pulled back a couple times, trying to get more air and to open his throat enough before making another attempt, but he couldn't quite get there.

It made sense. It was very obvious that Kent was the one who'd mainly taught Dimitri how to suck cock--he kept teasing the head with his tongue in that way Jeff knew Kent liked when he was getting a blowjob, although Dimitri was clearly recalibrating for Jeff's foreskin as he did it--and Jeff's dick was a little longer than Kent's.

Since Jeff had learned during a hookup last summer that his gag reflex was ridiculous and he was probably doomed to be pretty shit at blowjobs for the rest of his life, he could empathize with Dimitri's struggle to get down that final stretch.

"You're doing good," Jeff reassured. "Look how much you can take now. You've really been practicing, yeah?"

Dimitri shivered and shut his eyes a little tighter.

Jeff hadn't meant to tease him this time, so he clarified. "Of course you did. You always work hard, Dima."

Jeff ran a hand over Dimitri's hair again, pushing back the strands that were starting to stick to the sweat along his forehead. "Like when you came in before scrim this year, skating with me and Kent. You got fast, Dima. You spent all summer bustin' your ass on speed drills, didn't you?"

Dimitri trembled, and made a stifled noise that sounded like agreement.

"Of course you did," Jeff repeated, running his knuckles along the side of Dimitri's face. "You always work so hard. I'm proud of you."

Dimitri made another shaky noise and shivered again, blinking his eyes open to look up at him.

"Here, pull back," Jeff said, sliding his hand into Dimitri's hair and pushing just a little, just in case he got stubborn again. "Get your breath."

Dimitri sat back, rubbing his mouth and chin hard with a frustrated expression. "I can do it," he said hoarsely.

"Listen to _you_ ," Jeff said lowly, because goddamn but Dimitri sounded good like that, with his throat clearly fucked.

Dimitri shuddered hard.

Jeff tilted Dimitri's head back, baring his throat and making Dimitri swallow hard again as he leaned forward to look him over. "You look so good," he murmured, because Dimitri did: his face was redder now with exertion, his mouth and eyes wet, his cock harder after all the work he'd done sucking Jeff's dick. "But your _voice_. Fuck but you sound good like this, Dima."

Dimitri shuddered and dropped a hand to his cock, gripping the base.

Jeff cupped his face and ran a thumb over his mouth again. "You're so good to me."

Dimitri swallowed a soft noise and stroked his dick, his head still forced back and his throat exposed. Jeff smiled and watched, enjoying the way Dimitri panted roughly as he jerked himself off.

But soon, Dimitri shook his head hard and dragged his hand away from his cock, pressing it down hard on the comforter under him. He looked back up at Jeff. "I can do it."

"Yeah," Jeff agreed. "I know you can. You always work hard, Dima. Anybody ever says different, I'll punch 'em on the ice myself."

"Losing fight is bad way to prove them wrong," Dimitri pointed out with a little sly smile, and Jeff cracked up.

" _Fuck_ ," he said after a moment, doubled over and holding Dimitri's shoulders as the other man snickered too. "Jeez."

Dimitri grinned at him, and Jeff slapped his shoulder in approval. "Yeah, alright, you got me."

Dimitri snickered once more. Then he took a slow breath, and shifted forward to take Jeff's dick back in his mouth.

Jeff cupped his face with both hands, holding him still. Dimitri looked back up at him. "I wanna try something."

"Okay," Dimitri agreed immediately, without any further information, which--like, seriously. Jeff enjoyed being trusted, but it was stuff like this that made him worry about Dimitri being way too slack about his limits.

But that was a conversation they could have, again, another day. Right now, Jeff said, "Gimme your hands."

When Dimitri held them up, Jeff took his wrists and pulled his arms forward until he could set Dimitri's palms on his hips. Dimitri kept them there when Jeff let go.

"Okay," he said, interlacing his fingers loosely behind the back of Dimitri's head. "I want you to go at my pace. Let me pull you forward, and just focus on keeping your throat relaxed."

Dimitri shivered hard, and nodded. "Okay."

"Good," Jeff smiled, before leaning down and kissing the top of Dimitri's head, since trying to reach his mouth would take too much shifting around. "Don't worry about swallowing. Just keep your jaw open, yeah?"

"Like yawning," Dimitri said.

"Yeah, like Kenny says. Just like yawning," Jeff agreed, because even if that advice had ultimately done him no good, he still wished it'd come from Kent and not a random guy at a friend's party whose name Jeff couldn't remember anymore.

He'd been a pretty nice guy, all things considered: funny and comfortable in his skin, and frankly more chill about Jeff almost barfing on his dick than Jeff felt was reasonable to expect. He'd just helped Jeff to the bathroom and gotten him some water, and then been cool with mutual hand jobs after Jeff finally managed to stop gagging.

But Jeff hadn't wanted to exchange numbers, even after the guy asked. His friend Larissa had hassled him the next day about burning perfectly good chances at a boyfriend or at least a casual relationship, because she'd seen them duck out of the party and she knew Jeff'd been stupid-crushing on a straight guy from the Aces for a couple years now, even if she hadn't figured out which one it was yet.

Jeff was honestly just proud he hadn't yet given away that his teammate crush count had gone from one to two, because that was going to be the end of him. He'd have to get a new phone number to spare himself the text barrage that'd come once Larissa learned that and ratted him out to the rest of their friends.

Dimitri nodded again. "Okay."

"Okay," Jeff said. "I'm gonna pull you down on my cock, and then I'm going to hold you still."

Dimitri shuddered again, closing his eyes.

Jeff pressed a knee reassuringly against his side. "When I let go, I want you to pull off. Okay?"

Dimitri nodded, breathing a little faster. Jeff tapped his knee against him again. "If you need air, I want you to slap my hip. Got it?"

"Okay."

...Jeff didn't like how quickly he'd answered. Like he wasn't really thinking about it.

"I mean it, Dimitri," he said firmly. "Look at me."

He did. Jeff told him, "If I haven't let go, but you need air, I want you to slap my hip. Understand?"

Dimitri nodded. Jeff made his voice softer again, and reminded him, "This isn't fun unless it's fun for both of us. Right?"

"...Yeah," he agreed.

"Good," Jeff repeated. "Go ahead and do it for me now, so I know how it'll feel."

Dimitri gave his hip a light pat, which technically wasn't anywhere in the neighborhood of a 'slap' but alright. That was fine.

"Okay," Jeff said. "You ready?"

Dimitri swallowed a couple times and took another deep breath, and then nodded. He opened his mouth.

Jeff eased him down onto his cock, moving slower than Dimitri had earlier. He barely put any pressure against the back of his head, just lightly urging him forward, and Dimitri obeyed and didn't try to move faster. He focused solely on keeping his throat open, like Jeff had said.

Dimitri took it really well. Jeff had guided him most of the way down his cock before he saw the first hints of strain in Dimitri's shoulders.

Jeff stopped pulling him forward. "Relax," he said. "You're doing really good, Dima. Take a couple breaths, and relax for me."

Dimitri did, breathing slow and shaky through his nose the first time and a little steadier the next. Jeff hummed encouragingly.

Once Dimitri's tension had fully eased, Jeff rubbed a thumb against his scalp. "Ready?"

He tried to nod. Jeff said "Okay," and started pressing him forward once more.

By the time he was near the base of Jeff's cock, Dimitri was tense again, struggling harder this time to force down his body's automatic resistance. Jeff pressed his legs against Dimitri's sides comfortingly.

"You're doing so good. Just a little more," he promised. "Here, shift back for me and then lean forward."

Dimitri obeyed, slowly scooting back before tilting forward and resting his arms heavier on Jeff's thighs.

"That's good," Jeff told him. "Tilt your head up."

He did. Hopefully it'd be enough to avoid mashing Dimitri's face into Jeff's abs or pubes once he had his whole cock inside his mouth, although Jeff was also hoping that if Dimitri's airway was a little straighter, it'd be easier for him to keep his cock down without his body panic-reacting about potential suffocation. "There you go," he praised. "Just a little more now."

Dimitri instinctively struggled again as Jeff pulled him slowly down, even as he kept trying to force himself relax the way Jeff was coaxing him to. And then finally Dimitri took his cock in all the way.

" _Fuck_ ," Jeff said unsteadily, reflexively tightening his fingers and then consciously loosening them when Dimitri flinched. "So good, Dima, fuck. You look so good."

Dimitri was shaking a little, digging his fingers into Jeff's hips, and his eyes were watering more even though they were clenched shut. He was breathing hard through his nose, which wasn't going to help him calm down.

Jeff shouldn't have told Dimitri to pull off after he let go, because now he was stuck keeping his hands on Dimitri's head instead of being able to touch and soothe him. All he could do was talk, which was getting pretty hard to do coherently.

"I wish you could see yourself," Jeff said roughly.

He hadn't meant for his voice to come out that harsh. But instead of flinching again, Dimitri made a soft, shaky noise before choking slightly.

"Easy, easy," Jeff murmured. "Breathe through your nose. You're doing good."

Dimitri tried; but he kept struggling to overcome his body's resistance and settle down for Jeff. He shifted on his knees every few seconds as tears and saliva dripped off his chin, gagging slightly every time he reflexively tried to swallow only to be viscerally reminded just how deep down his throat Jeff's cock was now.

Jeff was just about to let him go when Dimitri finally began to calm down enough that he could start adjusting.

It took him a while longer to fully manage that. But eventually, at last, Dimitri started to slowly relax as this got easier for him. Jeff pressed a knee against his side and said warmly, "There you go. I knew you could do it."

A couple breaths later, Dimitri abruptly let go of his hips, like he'd just realized how hard he'd been digging his fingers into them. Jeff was sure he'd have bruises soon, which was gonna make for a fun time in the dressing room at practice tomorrow.

It was fine, he'd figure out an explanation later. "You're good, it's fine," Jeff promised. "You did it, Dima. Just like you said you could."

Dimitri shivered again, flexing his fingers against Jeff's hips. Jeff rubbed his thumbs slowly along his scalp.

"You're doing so good," he encouraged. "You feel so fucking good, Dima. You _look_ so good, god."

Dimitri shivered again, hard enough that he choked a little.

"Easy," Jeff reminded. "Relax for me."

After Dimitri took another slow breath through his nose, Jeff told him, "I'm gonna hold you here, like this."

When Dimitri made an apprehensive noise, Jeff promised, "I'm not going to move, okay? Just breathe for me, that's all I want. I'm just going to hold you still for a little while."

Dimitri made another stifled, shaky noise. But he tried to nod, and then took another slow breath before doing his best to relax.

"There you go," Jeff murmured. "You're so good to me, Dima."

Dimitri's hands flexed on his hips again as another tremor went through him. Jeff hummed.

He _wanted_ to move. Dimitri looked amazing like this: willingly on his knees, his mouth so full of Jeff's cock that he could no longer speak without gagging himself, his face wet with drool and involuntary tears. His broad shoulders were trembling between Jeff's thighs as he pushed himself to stay still just like Jeff had asked, despite all his body's instincts to break free and get more air.

Nobody in the world who thought they knew anything about Dimitri Vovk, the toughest man on the Aces and one of the more feared and hated agitators in the league, would ever believe that he let somebody make him this weak.

Nobody else in the world got to see Dimitri as defenseless as he was right now in Jeff's hands, except Kent. Dimitri only gave this part of himself to them.

"You're so fuckin' good to me, Dima," Jeff said gutturally, because sometimes the amount that Dimitri trusted him hit Jeff so hard it felt like it could melt his heart. It scared him so much that Jeff was pretty sure he was in love. "Just, god. You're so good."

Dimitri gripped his hips, shaking harder.

"Just a little more," Jeff coaxed. "Hold on a little longer for me, Dima. You feel so fucking good."

Dimitri gave him another abortive nod, and then took a slow breath and held still.

He felt good enough that Jeff wished he could just come like this: with Dimitri clinging to his hips, shivering between his legs, his mouth hot and wet around his cock. It wouldn't take much: just a little friction. If Jeff could just work his hips, he'd probably come soon enough that it'd be almost embarrassing, especially if Dimitri could manage to take Jeff thrusting at a faster pace.

But he'd promised he wouldn't move. And Dimitri was already laboring to keep Jeff's cock down his throat as it was. He wasn't ready yet for Jeff to push him harder; he needed more practice first.

It was fine. Doing that would be fun later, and right now, it felt really damn good to know that Dimitri was giving him everything he could. Jeff knew how to have willpower and patience when he needed to.

Dimitri was starting to struggle more. He was trying to hide it, but he'd tightened his grip on Jeff's hips again and his breathing was getting shallower as more saliva dribbled down his chin. He was hitting the limit of how much he could take.

Jeff held him in place for five more long heartbeats, watching Dimitri fight his hardest to stay obedient and keep giving Jeff what he'd asked from him. And then he let go.

Dimitri pulled off his cock and slumped against the bed behind him, gasping raggedly for air.

"Easy," Jeff soothed, leaning forward and cupping the back of his neck as he grabbed the washcloth on the nightstand. "You did so good, Dima. You held on so long for me, you were so good. Just breathe now."

Jeff wiped off his chin and throat and chest, praising him quietly as Dimitri slowly got his breathing back under control. Dimitri held on tight to Jeff's forearm and calf, grounding himself.

When Jeff flipped the washcloth to a dry corner and started wiping away the tear tracks under Dimitri's eyes, Dimitri shivered.

He forced his eyes open a few moments later, his eyelashes sticking together wetly at first until he could get them open, and looked up at Jeff. "Sorry," he rasped out.

"Why?" Jeff asked, giving him a smile. He rubbed a tear stain with the pad of his thumb. "I like it. You look good to me like this, Dima."

Dimitri shivered again and swallowed hard. Jeff squeezed the back of his neck lightly and reminded him, "Just breathe."

Dimitri nodded and slumped into his hand, resting his head against the mattress. Jeff leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth before asking, "Do you want some water?"

He nodded again. Jeff dropped the washcloth onto his thigh and reached over for the bottle of water that was sitting on the nightstand too, because fuck it this was his fantasy and he didn't want to get up.

He held the water for Dimitri to sip, until he'd had enough and pulled back. Jeff set the bottle on the stand and wiped away the trickle of water that'd spilled down Dimitri's chin, before going back to up to take care of the drying tears on his face.

Once Dimitri was cleaned up, Jeff dropped the washcloth on the nightstand and rubbed Dimitri's shoulders slowly. He was calm again now, breathing steadily as he looked back up at Jeff.

Jeff gave him another smile, and ran his thumbs along Dimitri's collarbones. "You did really good."

Dimitri swallowed, and then told him hoarsely, "I can do it again."

Jeff shivered and tightened his grip slightly. "Nah, Scraps. You did enough. I'm gonna--"

"Please." Dimitri swallowed again as he looked down at Jeff's cock, red and slick with his saliva, before glancing back up to meet his eyes. "I can do it again."

And like, Christ, okay, Jeff wasn't a saint. His willpower had a limit, and Dimitri literally begging to deepthroat him again in that fucked-raw voice was miles past it.

"Okay," Jeff agreed, cupping the back of his head. "Okay, Dima, that sounds really fucking good. Sit up for me."

Dimitri did, leaning forward and setting his hands back on Jeff's hips before opening his mouth. Jeff gripped the base of his cock to hold it steady and then pressed gently on the back of Dimitri's head, urging him forward at the same slow pace as last time.

"Drop your jaw," Jeff reminded him as Dimitri took the head of his cock into his mouth. He did. "That's right. Just focus on keeping your throat open for me."

Dimitri made an agreeing noise, closing his eyes as Jeff continued feeding his cock into his mouth.

"There you go," Jeff told him, as Dimitri took him in easier this time. "I'm going to pull you down all the way again. And then I'm going to lift my hand away so I can touch you this time. Okay?"

Dimitri managed to mumble "Okay" around his cock, which felt ridiculously good. God _damn_ but Jeff wanted to come.

"Fuck," he groaned. "That's good, fuck. Use your tongue on the bottom of my dick, okay?"

Dimitri pressed his tongue against his cock, glancing up at Jeff.

Jeff groaned appreciatively for him again. "Yeah, do that. That's good, I like that. Will you keep doing that for me, Dima?"

Dimitri's response was too muffled to be coherent this time, but Jeff took it as a 'yes' when he started rubbing his tongue slowly against the bottom of his cock.

"I like that, too. You're so good to me," Jeff said fondly, brushing Dimitri's hair back from his forehead before resting his hand against the back of his head. "Ready?"

Dimitri made another agreeing noise, so Jeff pressed him forward again.

"Easy," he reminded, when Dimitri made a rough noise as Jeff sank him down further onto his cock. "Stop using your tongue if it makes this harder, okay? I don't want you to choke."

Dimitri nodded faintly, but he didn't pull his tongue back. Jeff resisted the urge to sigh and decided to let him keep doing it as long as Dimitri really could take it. He felt so damn good; Jeff wasn't a saint.

Dimitri flinched again when the head of Jeff's cock bumped the back of his throat, but it wasn't as bad this time. "You're doing good," Jeff told him. "You did this before, I know you can do it again. Just stay relaxed for me."

Dimitri squeezed his hip briefly instead of trying to nod or speak this time. Jeff tapped his knee against his side in response. "Nice and slow, Dima. Just hold your throat open."

Jeff slowed down a little as they got near the point where Dimitri'd begun struggling last time. He pulled his hand away from his cock and wrapped it around the back of Dimitri's neck instead, putting just a little pressure there, the same amount he was putting on the back of Dimitri's head. Dimitri shuddered with a whimper.

"You're doing good," Jeff said, trying to keep his voice steady despite the way he was breathing harder now. "Just a little more, Dima. I know you can do it."

He did. Once he had Jeff's cock all the way down his throat again, Dimitri tilted his head back a little more when Jeff told him to. Jeff patted the his neck in approval.

"There you go," he praised. "You did it, Dima. Good job."

Dimitri took a slow breath and rested his arms heavier on Jeff's thighs, settling in.

Jeff bit down the urge to swear. Seriously, if he could just move a _little_ \--

It was fine. It was fine, learning more patience wasn't gonna kill him. Dimitri was doing so much for him already, pushing himself hard for no other reason than because Jeff had asked him to. Jeff needed to appreciate what he had literally right in front of him.

"I'm going to take my hand away now," he said. "Pull back when you need to breathe, okay?"

Dimitri squeezed his hip in agreement.

"Good." Jeff let go of his neck and the back of his head, and said lowly, "Show me how long you can last, Dima."

Another tremor wracked through Dimitri as he gripped Jeff's hips a little tighter. Jeff chuckled and rubbed a hand over his back in a slow circle.

Having his hands free was much better. Jeff ran them along Dimitri's back and shoulders and neck, massaging him whenever he felt Dimitri tensing up until he relaxed again, and pushing back the hair sticking Dimitri's forehead so he could see his face better. When Jeff traced his fingers down the scar along the side of his face, Dimitri leaned into the touch.

"You're doing good," Jeff told him, tracing the scar again. His praise wasn't real creative tonight, but it was so friggin' late and anyway it was all true. Dimitri was doing a lot better the second time around, now that he had a tangible idea of what Jeff wanted and how doing it would feel. "Like, seriously, Dima. You always work so hard."

Dimitri shivered. He opened his eyes and looked up at him a moment later.

Jeff smiled back, and ran his fingers down to touch Dimitri's mouth. Dimitri shivered and made a stifled noise as Jeff traced his upper lip where it curved around his cock.

"I wish you could see yourself like this," Jeff told him. "You look so fucking good. I wish _Kenny_ could see you right now."

Another tremor ran along Dimitri's spine.

Jeff slid a hand down to cup the front of his throat. The angle was awkward, but it made Dimitri shudder again with a moan.

"Yeah?" Jeff said affectionately, running his free hand over Dimitri's hair. "You like that idea?"

When Dimitri stifled another desperate little sound, Jeff smiled wider. "Yeah. He really oughta see how all your practicing's paid off, eh? Maybe he's still up."

He didn't really want to pull away and get his cell to text Kent, though. He didn't even really want to call him on the hotel phone sitting right there on the nightstand. Jeff had no problem sharing Dimitri with Kent; but right now, he wanted to keep this just for himself.

When Dimitri's fingers flexed against his hips again, Jeff traced a thumb over his eyebrow and then back down along his scar.

"But, nah," he said softly. Dimitri blinked and looked up at him again. "He's prolly got another interview or something in the morning, we shouldn't wake him.

"Besides," Jeff said, touching the corner of Dimitri's mouth again to feel the way his jaw was loose and his lips were stretched slightly around his cock, "I don't think I wanna share you tonight."

Dimitri made another soft noise in the back of his throat.

Jeff cupped his jaw. "You stole that puck and gave me the assist for my hattie," he pointed out, because Dimitri had basically skated through one of the Ducks' defensemen to recover that intercepted pass before wristing the puck across the ice to Jeff. Anaheim's goalie couldn't get to the opposite side of the net before Jeff had slapped the one-timer in. "I wouldn't have my third goal without you, Dima. _You_ got me there."

Dimitri shivered heavily, reflexively tried to speak, and then choked hard as his throat tightened around Jeff's cock.

" **Fuck** ," Jeff gasped at the sudden hot pressure--but he had enough presence of mind to push away and pull Dimitri back, sliding his dick out of his throat.

Dimitri doubled over once he was free, coughing harshly. Jeff thumped him on the back and reached for the water bottle.

Dimitri drained the rest of the water once he quit coughing, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Jeff took the empty bottle back and dropped it on the nightstand, ignoring it as rolled toward the wall.

Dimitri exhaled hard, clearly frustrated with himself, before straightening up to look at him. "I can do it again."

"Nah," Jeff said, because he wasn't a saint but he tried not to be an asshole, either. Dimitri had pushed himself to his limits enough for him tonight.

Dimitri shook his head, getting stubborn again. He hated feeling like he'd failed. "I can do it, Jeff--"

" **No** , Dimitri," he said emphatically.

Dimitri flinched at that, so Jeff reached out to brush his hair off his forehead again. "You've worked hard enough for me tonight, Dima," he said, softening his voice. "We'll do this again when we're back in Vegas, okay? I'm gonna show you off to Kenny once we're home."

Dimitri took a slow breath, and sat back on his heels. "...Okay."

"Good," Jeff smiled, cupping the side of his face.

He was half-lying. Dimitri needed more practice at this, until deepthroating Jeff was no longer so difficult for him, before Jeff wanted Kent to join them.

Kent's protective streak toward Dimitri was normally low-key, but it came out hard when he felt like Dimitri was being hurt. And Jeff was pretty sure that the intense intimacy of sex would escalate those feelings a lot more than just seeing some pest cross-check Dimitri in the neck during a game. Kent wouldn't enjoy seeing Dimitri struggle the way he had tonight, not like Jeff did.

"You've been so good to me tonight, Dima," Jeff told him, wrapping his free hand around his dick and squeezing the base hard. Not just yet. "In the game and now. I wanna come now."

"Okay," Dimitri said, starting to lean forward. Jeff pressed back with the hand still cupping his face.

Dimitri stilled and didn't try to fight this time, but he looked up at Jeff. "I can--"

"Lean back against that bed for me," Jeff interrupted firmly.

When Dimitri hesitated for another moment, Jeff pressed a thumb against his mouth. "Didn't you promise to do whatever I said tonight, Dima?"

Dimitri exhaled slowly and leaned against the other bed. "...Yeah."

His hands slid down Jeff's thighs as he moved, but he didn't let them drop away. Dimitri kept them resting on Jeff's knees, even though his cock was dark and dribbling precome and he had to be as desperate to come as Jeff was by now.

Dimitri kept his mouth open, letting Jeff pull his jaw down and press his thumb hard against his tongue. Dimitri swallowed awkwardly around the pressure, and then relaxed his jaw again and closed his eyes.

Jeff had watched a few porn clips with facials and didn't really get the appeal, but he had to admit it was a lot more tempting when Dimitri was just kneeling there and silently offering it up to him.

But he wanted something else tonight. Jeff settled his feet on the comforter and started jerking off, enjoying the accepting, waiting expression on Dimitri's face even as he aimed for his chest.

He came stupid friggin' fast--in real life and therefore in the fantasy--but he'd been holding out for a long time. Jeff kept his eyes open as he came on Dimitri's chest, watching his face as Dimitri shivered when he felt it start to hit. He swallowed again, and didn't fight how Jeff was still holding his mouth open.

When he was done, Jeff leaned forward and ran his hand slowly along Dimitri's chest, rubbing the come into his skin. Dimitri shivered again.

"I wish you didn't have a roommate," Jeff said quietly. Dimitri took a deep breath that he could feel under his palm. "Or I'd tell you to wear me all night. No shower until morning."

Dimitri swallowed and opened his eyes to look at him. "I can."

Jeff shook his head. "Nah. I don't want him to see you like this. Who'd they put you with?"

"Carly," Dimitri answered muffledly.

Jeff held down the derisive snort he **wanted** to make, because Carly was a mouthy ass who pulled too many juvenile pranks that Jeff kept getting caught in the crossfire of. But Carly and Dimitri also hung out a lot so their dogs could play together, so Jeff didn't want to be a dick about him.

He shook his head again instead. "Yeah, he definitely doesn't get to see how good you look right now."

Jeff pulled his thumb away so Dimitri didn't have to struggle to speak anymore. Dimitri closed his mouth and swallowed again, taking another deep breath.

Jeff slid a hand into his hair and tilted Dimitri's head back, baring his throat again. Dimitri moved with him, closing his eyes when the angle made it hard to keep his gaze focused on Jeff. More precome was trickling down his dick, but he kept his hands clenched tight on Jeff's knees.

Jeff really enjoyed edging such a tough guy like Dimitri until he begged for Jeff to make him come; but he liked it even better when Dimitri just did it to himself for him, of his own volition. "You're so good to me, Dima. Jesus.

"Do you have a clean undershirt left?" Jeff asked.

Dimitri nodded.

"Good," he said. "You know where Kenny's room is?"

Dimitri paused, thinking about it.

"Two doors down, other side of the hall," Jeff told him. "I want you to go over there and use his shower, and then go back to your room.

"...Okay," Dimitri agreed.

Jeff rubbed a thumb over his mouth again. "I want Kenny to see how good you look," he said, lower. "And I want you to tell him everything we did."

Dimitri shivered and went a little redder. "Okay."

He hesitated after that, shifting on the pillow, and almost pulled a hand away from Jeff's knee before stopping himself. Dimitri swallowed again and met his eyes before asking hoarsely, "Can I come?"

"Hmm," Jeff said, because he really ought to say yes. Dimitri had been so good for him that he more than deserved it. And he clearly wanted it bad; he didn't usually ask Jeff outright like this, not so early.

But on the other hand, it was a fantasy, so he could make tonight end exactly how he wanted it to without any inconvenience. "Nah."

Dimitri tightened his grip on his knees, shivering. "Jeff. Please."

Jeff shook his head, even though it was really fucking hard when Dimitri was asking in that wrecked voice, Jesus Christ.

If Jeff didn't need to have been asleep over two hours ago, he'd keep this going and keep Dimitri here. He'd put him on his back on one of the beds and tease him with his hands and mouth until Dimitri was broken with desperation, chest heaving and fists clenched in the pillows as he openly begged Jeff to let him come.

He'd tell Dimitri not to be quiet, the way he usually was. Jeff wanted to hear him tonight; every time that Dimitri bit his lip or stifled a groan, Jeff would make him wait another five minutes and then plead for it before he touched him again. He wanted to find out just how wrecked Dimitri would be by the end.

But it was starting to hit 'you're gonna pay for this in the morning you goddamn moron' levels of late. Jeff needed to sleep. He could save that fantasy for another day.

"Go to Kenny's room and tell him to suck you off," he told Dimitri instead. "And then shower and leave. Don't get him off. If he hadn't sent a bad pass, he'd have the second assist on that goal," Jeff reminded him. "You're the one who recovered it and got me the hattie."

Dimitri made a face, because he didn't like denying Kent orgasms. "Everybody was on him so he couldn't pass to you."

Which was true. Kent had assisted Jeff on the first two goals, so the Ducks' d-men had spent the rest of third period trying to strangle every possible open lane between them. That was how they'd fucked up--they were too focused on Kent, and weren't paying enough attention to Dimitri.

Jeff shrugged, and decided that it was fine to be a softie like Dimitri tonight. This was a special circumstance.

"Tell you what. If he's _really_ good to you, you can help him come," Jeff compromised, knowing full well that Dimitri would decide literally anything Kent did to get him off would count as 'really good.' "But then I want you to shower and go back to your room. It's getting late."

"Okay," Dimitri agreed.

Jeff yawned hard, throwing off his train of thought. He made himself roll out of the bed and head for the bathroom.

As he cleaned off, he wrapped up the fantasy, helping Dimitri back to his feet and telling him to get dressed while Jeff texted Kent. _You better still be awake_

 _We fly out at 10, why the hell are you still up?_ Kent replied almost immediately.

It was believable. Jeff knew Kent would probably stew over that intercepted pass for a while after the game, since one case of bad timing meant he'd lost the chance to be recorded as an assist on Jeff's first career hat trick.

Okay, Kent probably wouldn't be thinking about it for this long. But whatever, it was believable enough.

Jeff sent _I'm going to bed. I'm sending Scraps over to you so answer soon as he knocks_

 _Ffs_ was all Kent replied, but Jeff knew he'd do it.

Jeff just wrote _You'll want to see this_ before dropping his phone onto the nightstand. He looked over at Dimitri, who was picking up his shirt.

"That's enough, Scraps," Jeff said. "Just carry the rest over with you."

Dimitri looked over and then looked down at himself. He had on his undershirt and his suit pants, but his dress shirt and tie and suit jacket were still off. "Somebody can see me."

Jeff had moved Kent's room to two over and across instead of wherever Kent actually was in the hotel because he knew that Dimitri tried to avoid breaking rules in normal life, even if they were as minor as the Aces' roadie dress code. It was his way of making up for all the rules he sometimes had to break on the ice, which was why being a passenger in Dimitri's car was a lesson in making peace with stopping at every single freaking yellow light on the road, unless they were driving somewhere so icy that trying to break would be more dangerous than continuing forward.

Plus, one look at Dimitri's hair and mouth and it was obvious that he'd just been fucked hard. Jeff wasn't going to send him on the elevator like that.

"It's okay," Jeff reassured, picking up Dimitri's jacket and folding it loosely. "Kenny's up, and he's going to answer as soon as you knock." He draped the jacket across Dimitri's arm, and then picked up the tie and laid it over it. "I don't want you to get your nice shirt dirty."

Dimitri bit his lip; but when Jeff held out a hand, he gave him the shirt. Jeff folded and draped it over the jacket and tie, readjusted Dimitri's arm so all the fabric was hiding his painfully obvious erection, and then kissed him one more time. Then he went to the door and opened it to check the hall.

Nobody was out there, of course. A moment later, the door to Kent's room opened.

Kent dragged his hair back from his face, holding down a yawn as he looked across the hall. He was wearing an old t-shirt and a pair of hastily-yanked-on pajama pants that Jeff had seen him in once when the hotel they were staying at last season had its fire alarms go off.

Kent dropped his hand when he caught Jeff's gaze and mouthed something to the effect of 'Chrissake, dude.'

Jeff just winked at him and leaned back into his room, gesturing for Dimitri to come over.

He did, even if he still hesitated a little. Jeff rested a hand on the small of his back and urged him forward, out into the hallway. "It'll be fine. See?"

Kent dropped the grumpy act as soon as he saw Dimitri and almost inaudibly said, "Jesus fucking Christ," before shaking his head and waving Dimitri over.

Jeff patted Dimitri on the back as he left and quickly crossed the hallway to Kent's room. Jeff stayed at his doorway until they were both inside and Kent had pulled the door shut behind them. Nobody else ever entered the hall.

In the bathroom, Jeff finished drying his hands and left. He absently touched the commemorative puck sitting on top of his mostly-packed suitcase as he passed it, before flopping down onto the bed and telling himself to go to friggin' sleep already.


	4. ...that you live forever

Near the end of March, the Aces had secured their playoff berth and Jeff decided to cancel a Grindr hookup and drag Parse out to a Clippers game instead, because Parse was very clearly in the process of losing his mind from stress.

Jeff got it. It was the third year the Aces'd reached the playoffs, the second year Parse was entering them as part of the leadership group, and the first year he was leading the team as its captain. That'd be a burden on anybody's shoulders, especially when Parse was still twenty-one.

But understanding didn't make Parse more bearable.

He'd gotten better since one of the veterans talked to him--except "better" meant that now Parse was just visibly trying to conceal his frustration as the Aces fought for enough points to beat the Kings the last playoff spot, instead of actually calming the hell down. Which _was_ a step in the right direction, but still. It was a very baby step one.

It was affecting the energy in the dressing room. The guys who already had chips on their shoulder about their play this season or about barely clearing the trade deadline were getting more agitated after bad periods or losses. And more guys were starting to vent to Jeff, which was especially ominous: it meant they were frustrated enough that it was overriding the impolitic risk of badmouthing the team's captain and franchise face to one of his irl friends.

Hence the basketball game. Jeff'd bought tickets to the first thing he'd seen happening in town tonight without looking at the Clippers' opponent, but whatever. That wasn't the point.

Parse predictably dragged his heels as Jeff bullied him out of the hotel and over to the rental car, but at least it was metaphorical and not literally. "I have to pack--"

"You need all night to pack?" Jeff interrupted dryly. "I don't think so, Parse. You **need** to watch any other sport, have a beer, and not fuckin' talk about hockey for a few hours. Which is the plan! You're welcome."

"For fuck's sake--"

"Get your ass in the car, Parson," Jeff ordered, pushing him at the passenger door. "You are not sitting in your room watching tape of the Canucks all night. We're going out and watching your bff Griffin beat--uh, whoever LA's playing."

The corner of Parse's mouth lifted, even though he still had his arms crossed in front of his chest and wasn't moving to get into the car. "Still mad he's not following you on Twitter?"

Jeff waved a hand dismissively as he opened the drivers' door. "I don't belong in the superstar rookies' club, I made my peace."

Parse just kept his arms crossed and continued on deliberately standing next to the car instead of getting inside. Jeff sighed.

"Look, Kent," he said bluntly, folding his arms on the roof and holding Parse's gaze. "You've been stressed as hell for the past month. I get it, we all get it, but it's making you insufferable. You need to step away for a night."

Parse exhaled through his teeth. "I'm not--Crosser and I _talked_ about this," he insisted, dropping his arms with an aggravated gesture. "I'm not givin' anybody shit anymore, even if they fuck up."

"Okay, yeah, but you're still visibly thinkin' the last part," Jeff drawled. "Everybody wants the Cup, Parse. Riding guys' asses if they take a stupid penalty isn't gonna make them stop doin' it. It's just gonna piss them off and drag the dressing room down further."

Parse was starting to get that aggravated, stony-faced expression that usually meant another argument. Which was the opposite of what Jeff was aiming for, so he tried to get out in front of it. "I know you've toned it down, Parse. But you gotta do more."

"Like fucking what, Troy?" Parse asked flatly.

"Parson, you chirp me every friggin' week for not even wanting to be an alt, why're you asking me for leadership advice?" Jeff replied, raising an eyebrow.

Parse snorted under his breath. But he slid his hands into his pockets instead of folding his arms again, which was less resistant body language than before.

Jeff decided to push his luck. "What I think you should do _right now_ is take a break.

"Come to the game," he cajoled. "Quit thinkin' about the playoffs for a night and have some fun, get in a better mindset. Call it a maintenance day for your head," Jeff suggested. "You'll be better off for it tomorrow."

Parse blew out another slow, quiet breath; but then he opened the door.

Jeff slid into the driver's seat and congratulated himself on successfully manipulating Parse's really predictable attitude about only viewing mental health through the lens of training. --Wait, maybe he shouldn't be proud of that.

As he was programming the GPS for the arena, Parse grumbled, "Vancouver's the top seed, watching tape before we face them makes **sense**."

"Really holding onto that one, huh?" Jeff scoffed. "Let the coaches do their jobs for **one** night, Parse, the world won't end."

Parse made an openly derisive noise at that, because by this point in the season it wasn't a secret that he and the Aces' head coach were butting heads a lot over Dan's system.

Jeff got that, too.

Parse was an unbelievably creative player. Every tenth shift with him was a nightmare of banked shots and ricocheted pucks and barely having enough time to wonder why Parse was over on one part of the ice when suddenly the puck was there too, leaving Jeff mentally and physically ragged from keeping up with him by the time they returned to the bench. He'd skated three double-shifts with Parse on the power play over the course of the season and been convinced he was going to keel over dead after two of them.

And that was with Parse's creativity hamstrung by the head coach's heavily structured, defensive play style.

God only knew what it would be like to do a shift with Parse under a coach who valued the kind of high-flying offense that'd really capitalize on Parse's speed and skill and give the rest of the forwards more flexibility out on the ice. Lethal, probably. For the opposition and also Jeff himself.

"Yeah, yeah," he agreed, because he was also getting fed up with being cussed out by Dan for breaking a play even if doing so led to a goal for the Aces. "You can take **one** night off, Parse."

Parse shook his head, but didn't argue further. Jeff defined that as a win and headed out of the parking lot.

*

During halftime Parse asked, "What're you doing during the lockout?"

"I said no hockey talk," Jeff replied. "Fined 30 minutes extra core work. It's not hard to _not_ do something."

"It's not hockey talk, it's career talk," Parse replied, like Jeff was going to let that fly.

"Fined a hundred **and** the extra core work for that bullshit workaround attempt, Parser," Jeff told him, because come _on_.

Parse raised an eyebrow as he took another sip of the beer he'd been nursing all night. "When'd you become the new fines master?"

"Crosser'll back me up," Jeff threatened.

Parse rolled his eyes. But he put his beer on the boards and fished out his wallet, and pulled out a hundred dollar bill before slapping it on Jeff's thigh.

"Why the fuck do you carry hundreds?" Jeff asked incredulously.

Parse just shrugged.

"Gauche," Jeff replied, grabbing at the bill before it fluttered off onto the court. Parse elbowed him in the side harder than strictly necessary.

Jeff opted to ignore it. He got that there was a class thing between them because of how differently they were raised, but seriously, it was time Parse got comfortable with the fact that he was a literal multimillionaire pro athlete and not still a rural middle-class kid.

"So?" Parse said, picking his cup up. "What're you gonna do?"

Jeff shrugged as he folded the bill and stuck it in his hoodie pocket. "I dunno."

Parse gave him a disbelieving look. Jeff shrugged.

He'd plan what to do during a lockout if it happened. He wasn't interested in spending months stressing for no reason if the league and players' union wound up agreeing on a new contract before the deadline. "What're _you_ considerin'?"

Parse lifted a shoulder and looked back out at the cheerleaders on the court. "Play in Europe, prolly."

"Yeah?" Jeff said. That made sense. That's what the good players did last time: went to Europe or Russia. "Where?"

"Dunno," Parse answered. "I'll look at the offers."

"Knock on wood," Jeff told him reflexively.

Parse snorted under his breath, because he was the most weirdly non-superstitious hockey player Jeff'd ever met.

His attitude toward bad luck sometimes bordered on a 'come at me, bro' dare. Scrappy's been trying to convince him to get warded since the start of the season, when Parse got cursed again and broke four ribs before it was caught and he was cleansed.

Jeff rapped his own heel on the wooden boards of the floor, even though he knew transference didn't work like that. "Maybe it won't happen."

Parse snorted again, louder, like the cynic he was. "Sure, Swoops."

*

Winning the Cup was something Jeff only remembered in pieces.  
  
  
He remembered every single lost face-off, intercepted pass, shot that went wide, puck that deflected off the goal post, and fucking goalie save made on him.  
  
  
He mostly remembered the shoving match he got into during the semi-finals with a Blues player that'd ended with them wrestling inside the net and knocking it off its pegs.

He didn't remember punching Backes in the throat the way every .gif his friends sent him afterward showed him doing, but the evidence was there. And Jeff definitely remembered how aggressively Backes had gone at Parse that game, with hits and chirps both, after St. Louis fell behind by two goals.

Jeff still wasn't sure why the ref'd only given them both a two-minute roughing penalty. It meant he technically still had zero career fights on his record, though.  
  
  
He half-remembered screwing up his ankle blocking a shot in the conference finals, and remembered every minute of being scratched from the next game and watching the Aces win the round in second overtime from the press box.

He didn't remember most of the nighttime drives home from Vegas games during the playoffs, but he remembered that one.

Once the media interviews were done, Jeff strong-armed Parse into his car and drove him back to the condo building they lived in. Parse'd insisted that he was fine and he could drive himself the whole way through the parking garage, and then passed out before they even reached the freeway.

Jeff sat in the condo's garage for a while after he'd parked, because he didn't want to wake Parse up just yet. He'd spent the time texting Scrappy, although it'd mostly been a long exchange of .gifs because Scraps was too tired to deal with written English.

Scrappy had taken an arm injury during the quarterfinals against Vancouver. It wasn't bad enough to take him out of the rest of the playoffs, but he'd been forced to start getting rides with a player who lived in his neighborhood instead of driving himself. Which would've been fine, except Scraps and Vicky didn't like each other.

Part of it was just the normal personality clashes that any team inevitably ran into. But part of it was definitely based on sociopolitical tensions that Jeff needed significantly more knowledge about Eastern European history to fully get.

(In January, he finally bought a book about Stalin's manufactured famine in Ukraine, after Scrappy mentioned the Holdomor during a team lunch and Vicky immediately called it nationalist propaganda.

Scrappy hadn't replied to that. He'd just gone quiet and looked at Vicky with a narrow, focused expression that was completely wrong for kind of the person Scraps tried to be off the ice.

Jeff couldn't ignore **that** red flag.

On the plus side, having to do research in his free time meant he learned enough about Russian diminutives to realize Scrappy was consistently calling Viktor "Vitka," instead Vitya or the team's nickname Vicky, because he was being kind of a dick and using the colloquial diminutive of Viktor's name in a belittling way.

So it wasn't surprising that the equipment guys'd started putting their stuff on opposite sides of the dressing room a couple weeks into the season. Or that Vicky was only giving Scrappy rides because Parse had smilingly asked him to do it as a personal favor, in a tone that made it clear it was a captain's order. Or that Scrappy usually spent the rides texting other people.)

Jeff knew he should talk to Scrappy about the situation, because it wasn't great. Especially since Parse had apparently decided that this was the one long-simmering team issue that he was fine turning a blind eye too, as long as Scrappy and Vicky stayed civil and didn't fuck up when they were on the ice together.

But to be fair, Jeff knew that Parse had spent the season trying to balance having personal friends on the team without appearing to show favoritism as the Aces' new captain. So that definitely made it trickier to address Scrappy and Vicky's strained tolerance for each other.

It didn't help that Parse and Vicky had a pretty volatile relationship themselves at times. Parse already didn't go out of his way to hang out with Vicky outside of the clubhouse.

Jeff knew that Parse liked the guy because he was good. And it was easy to see that Vicky genuinely admired Parse's hockey skills.

But at the same time, Jeff'd once spent the flight back from a game where the Aces went 0-for-5 on the power play sitting at the same table with Parse and Vicky as they re-watched clips and dissected the PP's failures with increasing intensity, until the video coach had--thank god--finally come into the players' area of the plane and ended their shouting match by taking away Parse's tablet for the rest of the flight and saying he'd review the tape with them both tomorrow. Jeff'd brought the coach coffee the next morning in gratitude for getting him out of that hellscape.

So if Parse hadn't figured out how to step in and address this situation as an impartial captain yet, Jeff knew he should talk to Scrappy about it. Scraps was his friend, too; ignoring things didn't feel right.

Except, it was so rare to see Scrappy be so low-level petty that Jeff found it kinda attractive.

He didn't want to tell Scrappy to stop. Even though he knew that was the wrong attitude for an alternate captain to have.

 _Especially_ since, when Jeff'd mentioned the whole "Vitka" thing to Parse, Parse had laughed for almost a minute straight before wiping his eyes and saying "Holy shit, good for Scraps," so...maybe there was never any help coming from that corner, actually.

But it wasn't like Scrappy had some knee-jerk hatred of Russians. He chirped Russian players viciously on the ice, sure, and he'd taught Parse way too many Russian insults--to the point that Jeff was pretty sure Parse and Mashkov were going to end up fighting eventually--but he could get along with them, too.

Like during the preseason, when the GM'd had a really talented prospect travel with the Aces for a couple weeks. Vicky had gotten off on the wrong foot with the kid for some reason; but Scrappy had taken pity on Olek. He'd spent a lot of time talking to him in slow Russian and explaining the differences between a Juniors and a pro team.

So Jeff kept justifying his inaction by telling himself he didn't _have to_ have to address the issue yet. Let the head coach finally notice and deal with it already, that's what he was paid for. Jeff shouldn't have to do Dan's job for him.  
  
  
He remembered consciously choosing to ignore the wiser path of getting his ankle looked at right then, and pushing the trainer and doctor and coaches to clear him to play in the Cup finals.

He always thought he'd be smarter than that. Jeff had a whole pre-existing life and future he had to return to after he retired, and it'd be a lot harder to manage a bunch of land out in rural Alberta while coping with long-term crippling sports injuries.

But it turned out the mob mentality that swept through a team entering the Stanley Cup finals for the first time ever was impossible to detach from. Jeff hadn't even wanted to try.  
  
  
He remembered all nineteen goals and seventeen assists he made across the entire playoffs.  
  
  
He remembered pulling Scrappy close and thumping his good shoulder as they watched Parse receive the Cup and take off with it around the ice, howling with joy as he kept it lifted above his head even though Jeff knew he had broken ribs.

Scrappy kept wiping at his eyes with his good hand, and Jeff had pulled him even closer and tapped their temples together and said . . . he didn't know what. Probably something dumb. Definitely something happy, because right at that moment--holding Scrappy, watching Parse's completely unfiltered joy, riding so high on what they'd all just achieved that he was ready to vibrate right out of his skin--Jeff felt like he was living an entire lifetime's worth of happiness crammed into one night.

He remembered skating the Cup around the ice, only doing a half-circuit because the damage to his ankle had spread up to his knee over the course of the finals despite all the maintenance days the coaches had put him on. He remembered being surprised how heavy it was.  
  
  
One of the vets had been part of a Cup-winning team years ago. When everybody'd returned to the dressing room after the long post-game media, Crosser closed the doors and shut out everybody except the actual team.

It gave the guys a brief respite where it was just them, no media or coaches or even doctors or reporters. Just a group of exhausted players finally getting a chance to talk in peace with each other, for their last time together as a team, before trades and contracts and injuries began separating them.

It took Jeff years to fully grasp what a good thing Crosser had done that night.

He still remembered that oasis among the huge, media-fueled frenzy of winning the Cup. He still appreciated it.

*

Plenty of championship-winning teams detoured to Las Vegas on their way home for an after-party. The Strip's nightclubs knew how to pull out all the stops on short notice as soon as any major leagues' playoff games concluded.

But the Aces were Vegas's first major league hometown team. The Strip went over the top even for it.  
  
  
"Holy shit," Jeff said as they were disembarking, staring up at the celebratory banner hanging above the tarmac-level entrance of the VIP lounge the Aces always sent them through to access either customs or the parking garage.

It was a little past midnight, even though they'd flown straight home from Newark. "How'd they get it made so fast?"

"God I love this town," Parse replied, with the same manic delight he'd had almost all night, except for when he'd collapsed in his stall and the longer time he'd spent passed out on the flight. He bopped his good shoulder into Jeff's back. "Get your shit, we're hittin' the Strip."

Jeff knew he should be exhausted, but with all the post-win adrenaline his body clearly hadn't gotten the message yet. "All right, lemme drop my stuff at home--"

"Take it, we'll throw it in a hotel room," Parse said, waving dismissively. "Let's _go_. Scraps!" he called to the other man, as Scrappy started slowly making his way down the flight stairs.

Jeff's parent-taught, ingrained disapproval of conspicuous consumption automatically rebelled. He and Parse literally lived on the opposite side of the highway from the start of the Strip. Scrappy could leave his stuff with one of them. "That's--"

"If you say 'gauche' I'm dumping another bottle of champagne on your head," Parse grinned.

. . . Whatever, fine. Jeff rolled his eyes. "Fuck it, let's go."  
  
  
He agreed to take a limo to the Strip because Parse and Scrappy were way too amped about the idea for Jeff to be a voice of reason, especially once several more teammates heard about the plan and joined them.

He spent part of the ride explaining what "gauche" meant to Scraps loud enough that he knew Parse overheard it. When Parse leaned over and on top of a guy's shoulders to give him the stink-eye, Jeff grinned back but told himself to quit being a dick.

They deserved to celebrate tonight. Jeff and Parse and Scrappy had literally crippled themselves to achieve this, so if riding in a limo made them happy after all the work they'd done to win tonight, okay. He wanted Parse and Scrappy to be happy.

(He still made them ask the casino's concierge to just store the guys' luggage while they were inside the building's nightclub. The man told them of course and that it was on the house.)

Jeff'd gotten a cortisone shot for his leg before the start of the game, but it was wearing off. He spent most of the early morning taking selfies with fans at a booth with Scrappy, who spent most of his time making and taking phone calls full of enthusiastic Ukrainian. Parse kept going out to the dance floor before staggering back to the booth as he yet again remembered that he still had broken ribs.

So many people bought them drinks that eventually Jeff couldn't see the table underneath all the still-full glasses and he just started indiscriminately giving them away to anyone coming around. They'd barely been in the club for a half hour before a large group of beautiful women showed up; Jeff was pretty sure somebody'd called a party service.

The booth got way too cramped after that, but at least it helped get rid of the drinks.

A couple hours before dawn, Jeff bullied Scrappy and Parse into grabbing their luggage and cramming into a taxi so they could go home. They left the limo for the rest of the guys.

"Fuck," Parse groaned as he slumped into his seat, one arm wrapped around his chest. He dropped his head back against the headrest. "I'm gonna regret that."

"Yep," Jeff said through a mouthful of the spicy waffle fries that a nice older couple wearing his and Parse's jerseys had bought for their table. They were cold by now, but Jeff didn't care as long as he could soak up enough booze to make it into his condo without looking drunk off his tits. "Same."

Scrappy--the only sober one, since he'd been on serious painkillers for the last three weeks for his arm--just nodded in agreement with their self-diagnosed dumbness and kept talking on the phone.

Jeff figured that was fair and drained the last of his water bottle.  
  
  
The taxi dropped him and Parse off and left to take Scrappy home. Jeff draped an arm over Parse's shoulders before he could think better of it, and fumbled out a flimsy excuse about his leg as they headed inside. Parse let him get away with it.

"Who called the chick wrangler?" Parse asked, as they were waiting on the elevator. "They sure went for you."

"Uuugh," Jeff grumbled, because sometimes he hated that he'd lived in this shallow, hyper-materialistic city long enough that he'd learned its lingo. "Fuckin' tell me 'bout it. Someone grabbed my dick at the table."

Parse started cackling. Jeff leaned heavier against him and griped, "Like lady, can we not, this is sexual harassment. Voyeurism. Both. --No," he went on, as Parse shook with laughter against his side. "Exhibitism? What's the one where you fuck in public?" Troy, where are you going with this, shut up already, you're drunk. And get your arm off him.

Parse patted him on the back. "I got my ass pinched, but I think you beat me."

"At the _table_ ," Jeff whined, because maybe the woman really had just accidentally spilled her drink and was trying to clean him up before he got mad or she got in trouble with her employer, but still.

He'd also had to spend a bunch of time watching Scrappy let a pretty, freckled blonde flat-out cuddle on his lap, until she'd accidentally bumped into his bad arm and Scrappy had politely eased her off and asked everyone at the booth to give him more space. It'd been a lot.

"Poor baby," Parse drawled, still grinning, and it occurred to Jeff that this was not the most heterosexual complaint.

He made a face at Parse and pulled his arm off his shoulders as the elevator arrived. Parse just rolled his eyes, still looking amused.

Once they were inside, Jeff slumped against the side wall and closed his eyes as Parse hit the buttons for their separate floors. 

But then Parse came over and leaned next to him, resting his arm against Jeff's own. Jeff blinked at him.

"Good game, Jeff," Parse said quietly, sliding his hands in his pockets and looking down at the elevator floor. "Good series. All of it. Just--fuck." Parse's eyes were a little wide as he looked over, like somehow despite all the hours that'd passed it was still sinking in. "We were amazing."

Jeff was an idiot who was in love with two men and it had to end badly for him eventually, but right at this moment he didn't care. He slung an arm back over Parse's shoulders and pulled him close, thumping his forehead against Parse's.

"Yeah," Jeff said, closing his eyes again as he grinned. "We are."

Parse shivered against him. Jeff reflexively squeezed his shoulders and tugged him in a little closer.

And then he came to his senses. Jeff made himself loosen his arm and straighten up, and slumped back against the wall.

They'd just won the Cup, it was okay to be a little touchy-feely. But still. Jeff wasn't drunk enough to suddenly think this was a good idea. He didn't want to make Parse start feeling weird around him again.

"...Yeah," Parse said a couple seconds later. His voice didn't sound right.

Jeff blinked and glanced over again.

Parse was still looking at him--but as soon as Jeff met his eyes, he looked down and then turned his head away too fast for Jeff to read his expression. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and began twisting the handle of his suitcase, still looking away.

Jeff frowned and lifted his head away from the wall. He started to ask if Parse was okay--dammit, he'd been too weird again, fuck--but then the elevator opened onto his floor.

He pushed away from the wall with his shoulders and thumped Parse's shoulder lightly. "See ya, Parse."

"Yep," Parse agreed.

He still looked off; but Jeff was pretty sure that right this second he needed to keep his mouth shut and wait until he was sober and rested again before trying to say anything about it. Now was super duper absolutely not a good time.

He stepped out of the elevator. Parse said, "Hey."

When Jeff turned around, Parse added "Catch" and tossed a mini-bottle of champagne at him.

He almost fumbled it, half because his coordination was pretty shot by now and also because the toss itself had been awkward. Parse was visibly favoring his ribs more.

Jeff wondered if maybe he was overthinking everything and Parse was just acting different because his ribs were starting to really hurt.

They'd just played three months of brutal playoff hockey and then gone out to party while injured instead of going home to rest like wiser, smarter people, so, maybe? That wasn't great, but it was better than Parse getting skeeved by Jeff being too blatantly thirsty for him.

Also why did he now have a mini-bottle of champagne?

Parse gave him a half-grin. "Toldja I was gonna dump it on ya if you called me 'gauche' again, Troy."

"Think you failed a step," Jeff told him dryly, putting a hand out to keep the elevator door from shutting. The bottle wasn't even open.

Parse shrugged gingerly and looked away again, sliding his hands back into his pockets and hooking his thumbs out. "Timing didn't feel right."

Jeff was still trying to figure out what that meant when Parse looked back over, now grinning wide enough to show teeth. "Just means I'll do it when you ain't expecting it."

"Goddammit," he said wearily. Parse snickered under his breath and reached out to push the close door button. Jeff stepped back.

Once the doors were shut, Jeff stuck the bottle into his pocket and started dragging his suitcase down the hallway to his condo.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly, and--once he was far enough away--mumbled, "Life'd be way simpler if I didn't like you."

But if he was honest with himself, Jeff had zero interest in living in that parallel reality. If it even existed at all, which felt impossible at this point.

*

During the week of their win and the parade and their end-of-season exit interviews and the clubhouse clean-out, Jeff had a few hookups with a guy from Grindr who was the right shade of blond but with the wrong color eyes.

He probably should've felt bad about it, but it turned out waking up to the knowledge that he was a _Stanley Cup champion_ went a long way toward mitigating shame.

*

On his day with the Cup, Jeff brought it around to a children's hospital in the morning, and took it to a three-hour autograph signing stint to raise money for a food bank in the early afternoon.

And then he threw a party at his neighborhood club and chirped every single Maple Leafs fan among his family and friends until he got shoved into the pool twice.

Jeff kept recklessly doubling down in response. He was only spared a third dunking because the manager discreetly pulled him aside and mentioned that while the club had no problems with Jeff's guests spreading out to the pool and outdoor grounds--especially since he'd set the Stanley Cup up on display on the terrace and was letting anybody who came by take photographs with it, and the manager wanted to reiterate that the club appreciated Jeff's generosity with such a historically important Canadian trophy--but technically Jeff had only rented one ballroom in the building.

Everybody toned down the boisterousness after that. Mostly.

(The Keeper of the Cup didn't appreciate Jeff's "generosity," since his literal job was to protect the trophy. But this wasn't the first impromptu and chaotic event a player had created spontaneously and with zero warning, and it wouldn't be the last.)  
  
  
Scrappy posted a lot of pictures of himself driving around Kiev in an extremely expensive-looking sports car that Jeff hadn't seen before, with the Cup in the back seat and a very pretty dark-haired woman in the passenger one.

Jeff liked all of the photos, but couldn't force himself to comment on them, since then he'd have to ask who she was. Parse dragged Scrappy ruthlessly for taking selfies while driving.  
  
  
Parse took the Cup around to his hometown's hospital and civic center. His professional Twitter and Instagram got noticeably more corporate over the summer.

Outside of the flood of victory parade and Cup pictures, and his individual congratulations to the Aces' 2012 draftees, Parse mostly posted about the upgrades that Malone's civic center was making with the money he'd donated. The only personal stuff was occasional pictures of him fishing with friends and family, or somebody else filming a couple casual lacrosse games he was in.

Over on his private accounts, though, Parse was getting significantly more irritated by the players' union and the league's inability to negotiate a new contract.

By August, after yet another meeting between the NHL and NHLPA got nothing done, Parse posted a photo of an English-French dictionary with _Guess I better start brushing up_ along with several extremely snarky emojis and the Swiss flag.

"Subtle," Jeff drawled at the phone, before writing as much in the comments. Parse responded with a shrug emoji.


End file.
